The Darkness of Winter
by artemiskat
Summary: In the deep of winter, a mysterious Dalish wanderer arrives in a village carrying a burden – a man most thought dead. But Siofra knew the truth and now she must make it right, for the man is her son and what was once a lie might soon come to be truth. #7
1. Chapter 1

This story is already finished, it's just a matter of me uploading it all. I will try and get one or two chapters up every day, barring any problems with my crap internet service, or the last flicker of my computer monitor. This is a monster, compared to my other stories, so I hope you will enjoy it. It's a little different from my other stories, too... but it does continue from where the last two (_Of Delicate and Dangerous Things_ & _In the Shadow of Ghosts_) left off, so enjoy. -_artemiskat_

* * *

><p>ONE<p>

He couldn't afford to slow down. And Maker forbid he came to a stop. The tracks he was following were quickly fading away under the swiftly falling snow. They would be completely covered soon, and then he would not know where they led, he would not be able to find the miscreants who'd left their marks in the snow, on his very soul.

His breath was ragged. It was hard to breathe. The deepness of the snow, the coldness of the air, and the arrow lodged in his shoulder; they all conspired to make him stop. To make him forget. His lungs burned with the effort of taking in the frigid air, in trudging one heavy foot after the other through the snow.

_I must not stop…_

He couldn't let them get away, or he'd never find them again. They were strangers, come in the night, to play their treacherous game. An image flashed before his mind of a red smile. A red smile that marred her beautiful, pale, and slender throat.

He fell to his knees and clutched his head as the pain shot through it. A groan escaped his lips. He covered his face in his hands. His body shook as chills ran through him. The snow piled atop him too fast for it to melt. Soon, he'd be covered too. He'd lay back and become one with the landscape. Nobody would ever know he had lived.

_What a foolish fantasy that is…_

He had to get up. The tracks were gone, but if he were quick, he might be able to catch up. They were headed north, into the bannorn, maybe even to Denerim or Amaranthine. He tried to pull himself up, but his legs gave out and he fell backward. He couldn't do it.

His lids grew heavy as the pain in his head worsened. The arrow lodged into his shoulder remained there still. He grabbed at the fletching and attempted to pull it out, but he found he was too weak to do even that. Something ran through his blood, he could feel it. The taint in him mingled with something else.

_Poison_, he thought before he lay on his back, the white world spinning around him, dizzying his head, and churning his stomach into a nauseous mess.

_I've failed you_… Tristan thought before the darkness washed over him.

…

She'd seen the thick black plume of smoke for a day. The winter sky had been clear after the monstrous blizzard. Now the smoke was reduced to a grey wisp, meandering into the sky above, coiling like a snake into the vast blue.

Eirlys avoided the main paths, lest she run into any strangers. These detours, however, were difficult to walk through – there had been so much snow. She pulled her fur-lined cloak around her tightly against the biting wind. Ferelden was foreign to her, but burning homes did not generally mean anything good no matter where one was and so she continued on her way to the forest, but on a different path than what she had started on.

She had a moment's regret for travelling at such a time. But she hadn't known how fierce Ferelden winters could be. It made no matter anyway; she was a walker of the lonely path, intent on reclaiming what had been lost to her people. She searched for them in all corners to spread her message. So far, they all looked at her like she was a madwoman, the Dread Wolf out to trick them into some folly.

Eirlys kicked away at the snow in her frustration. Perhaps she _was_ a madwoman, for thinking it could be done, but if no one ever hoped, if no one ever spread the dream, then it would never take hold. They would be lost forever. She kicked again at the snow, and hit something hard… something fleshy.

"By the Dread Wolf, what is that?" she asked, crouching down to examine what the uncovered snow had revealed. "A boot?"

She brushed the snow away further to reveal a leg. She pulled on the leg, and much to her surprise it was still attached to a body, visible now that some of the snow had scattered to the side. She moved up, brushed the snow from the face, the neck. A soot-covered face appeared beneath her hands.

"A _shem'len_!" her hands recoiled in horror. It was a human man. She considered what to do. She could leave the man there – he might even be dead already. But if he wasn't, was she so heartless, her hatred of humans so great that she would let one die? His blackened face might even be an indication that he had started the fire in the distance. He could be evil. This could be his punishment from the gods for his crimes.

With a deep breath, she reached for the man's neck to check his pulse. It was faint, fluttering slowly. He was still alive, but his skin burned, as if he were fevered. He was lucky he had not frozen to death. His body must have been warmed by the snow atop him, a cocooning blanket that kept him warm. _Too warm, though_. She noticed the arrow lodged in his shoulder. She pulled it out slowly and then sniffed the tip. _A poisoned arrow_. A small trickle of blood erupted from the wound.

The man was as good as dead.

Eirlys should stand up, turn around, and leave the man to the gods. Most likely he was only getting what he deserved. She made up her mind, was about to stand up, when she saw the hilt of the sword which rested awkwardly under the man. It had been attached to his back before he'd fallen onto it. Curious now, she reached over the man for the sword, to brush her fingers along the hilt. The pommel was curved like a snail's shell. What would a common thug be doing with a sword like this? Unless, he weren't some common thug after all.

When she removed her hand from the hilt, she saw that her sleeve had brushed away some of the soot from the man's face. There were markings underneath. Intrigued, Eirlys wiped away the rest of the soot with her gloves.

"The Dread Wolf take me, those are Dalish…" she whispered to herself as the tattoos were revealed. They covered half the man's face. Was he a halfling, an elf-blooded human? "Who are you?"

She lifted the man gently to a sitting position. He was heavy, very heavy, but she might be able to manage. She had trained for years as a warrior. She had the discipline, perhaps even the strength. And if that failed, she had her wits to rely on – sharper than any sword. Suddenly, she knew what she must do.


	2. Chapter 2

TWO

"You really should bond with her."

Ronan tried really hard not to deck his cousin Rhys. He was thoroughly sick and tired of the man prying into his life. He caught his fist midway as Rhys turned to face him. He almost regretted coming home. Almost.

"For the hundredth time, Rhys, if you can even count that far, Anwen is just a friend," he said with a sigh. They were on sentry duty. Rhys didn't seem to ever remember that they were supposed to be quiet. What was the point? If all Rhys did was blabber on, anybody could get past them. They might as well wear bright yellow clothing while they were at it.

"Everyone thought she was your wife when you came home with her." Rhys continued, oblivious to Ronan's narrowed eyes. "You should have seen your mother's face. It's like she was expecting a grandchild to pop out of Anwen then and there."

Ronan chuckled, despite his annoyance. "She still wears that expression every time she sees me and Anwen together."

"Would it really be so bad, to do what everyone is expecting of you?" Rhys asked, and then quickly continued before Ronan could reply. "I mean, don't ever mention this to Eleri, but Anwen is very pretty. I mean, for a city elf."

Ronan shook his head, exasperated with his cousin. "You don't understand."

"No, I don't." Rhys admitted. "What are you waiting for? If you wait any longer, somebody else will set their sights on Anwen and she will be out of your reach. That Harshal, he's already got his eyes on Anwen."

Ronan found the whole notion that Anwen would bond with anyone ridiculous. Especially a marriage to Harshal, that loud mouthed, clumsy oaf. "Harshal?" Ronan laughed. "Anwen would never bond with him. He's too much of an idiot."

Rhys stared intently at Ronan, so much so that Ronan grew uncomfortable.

"What?" Ronan asked.

"_Lethallin_, you are right. Anwen only has eyes for you." Rhys said.

If Ronan had been the type to do so, he might have blushed. The thought of that made him angry. "So?" he snapped at Rhys. "We're friends. She's shy. It takes her a while to warm up to new people. The gods only know it took her long enough to say anything meaningful to me."

Rhys arched a brow at him.

_Gods, why am I being so defensive?_

"Excuses, excuses." Rhys said with a smirk.

"Will you shut up already? Where is Ash, I need to sick him on you…" Ronan scanned the trees for the faithful wolf. Unfortunately, there was no sign of the animal.

"Just think about it." Rhys said. "Every man needs a woman to keep them warm at night, including you."

"Did my mother put you up to this?" Ronan demanded, crossing his arms over his chest angrily. He didn't come home to be badgered like this. To be told what to do with his life.

"No…" Rhys scratched his head. Ronan stared him down until Rhys shrugged. "Maybe she did. But I agree with her. It is time you settle down."

"Does she think I am going to run off again?"

Rhys shrugged again. "She wants what every mother wants – to see her child happy. And grandchildren, too."

Ronan groaned. "You don't understand. So please, shut up. We're supposed to be watching out here, you know, _in silence_."

But Rhys didn't know when to stop. He never did. "If your father chooses you to be Keeper after him, Anwen would make a good match. Chances are, some of your children would have magic, and then finally our clan could return to the old ways, with apprentices earning the Keeper's title."

"There is no way that my father will name me Keeper after him. It's a clan vote, have you forgotten?"

"His father was Keeper before him, and his grandfather too, and before that his great grandmother…"

"Oh, for the love of the gods, Rhys," Ronan interrupted. "None of that matters. The clan always voted the best hunter to be Keeper." Ronan held up his left arm – the one without a hand. "Since I've lost this, I can't even bring in a rabbit. You, _halla_ turd, are most likely next in line."

Rhys' eyes widened in surprise. "Uncle Silas is strong and healthy and likely to live long enough that one of your sons by Anwen…"

"Gods Rhys, you are getting far ahead of yourself. If you want the old ways to return so much, why don't _you_ bond with Anwen?" Ronan's fist shook at his side, wanting desperately to connect with Rhys. Why couldn't he just let it be? He did not understand anything…

"I already have Eleri." Rhys replied. "The clan wants _you_ Ronan."

"Enough!" Ronan shouted, loud enough for a raven to fly away at the sound, pushing new fallen snow onto their heads as the tree limb bent at the sudden movement. Ronan glanced upward to watch the bird fly away, brushing his cloak free of snow, and pointedly ignoring the sudden feeling of dread the raven had caused in him. "We are supposed to be on guard here."

Rhys looked like he was going to open his mouth again, but Ronan held up his hand to silence him. Rhys frowned, but finally heeded Ronan.

_Thank the gods_, Ronan thought as he turned around to watch the forest. A new blanket of snow covered the forest bed, pristine and shiny where the sun streaked through the canopy to hit it. The forest was quiet in the cold season. Ronan suddenly felt guilty for losing his patience with Rhys. It probably didn't matter if they made noise – there was hardly any a sane person who travelled in this kind of weather, deep into the winter season. But ever since his clan was nearly enslaved, they took no chances.

He took a deep breath to calm his anger. It wasn't fair to Rhys. Ronan considered admitting his shames to his cousin. Then, Rhys would see that he was not fit to be Keeper or anything.

He heard the crunch of snow coming from beyond a slight decline in the forest path. He clutched at his sword hilt in preparation for whatever was coming their way. Rhys came by his side, his bow up, the string pulled taut, arrow nocked and ready in the intruder's direction.

Ronan sucked in his breath, unable to move, unable to say anything at the figure that emerged. Her head was lowered, a long braid of brown hair hung in the air. _Melisende?_

Then she looked up, and as the woman's pale grey eyes met his, his heart beat again. It was not her. It was one of the people, her face straining as she pulled a makeshift sled. She stopped in her tracks, her breath coming fast.

"_Aneth era_," she said. "I mean no harm. I am Eirlys. I could use your help, my brothers."

Rhys lowered his bow and rushed to the woman's side. Ronan walked forward slowly, wary of the stranger before him. She carried a sword and shield at her back. But she wore Dalish clothing, had _vallaslin_ on her forehead and chin. He eased his sword back into its sheathe. The woman was not a danger. Ronan eyed the sled she pulled.

"What is it that you carry?" he asked.

"A man in dire need of your clan's help," she replied, inclining her head to the sled. Rhys leaned over the woman's burden, covered in a fur-lined cloak. He lifted the blanket, peeping under it, before letting go and backing away in shock.

"What scares you?" Ronan asked his cousin.

Rhys motioned to the sled. "Look for yourself…"

Eirlys followed him with her eyes as Ronan bent to the sled, pulling away the blanket. He backed away in confusion, but not surprise. "I knew it. I knew he wasn't dead."

The man was his brother.

"You know this man?" the woman asked.

Ronan nodded.

"He is the Hero of Ferelden." Rhys said. "We thought he was dead."

Ronan stared at Tristan's face. He was deathly pale.

"That might soon be the case if we don't do something for him…" Eirlys said. She looked surprised to find out that she had been lugging such a person through the snow. "I found him in the snow. He's been hit by an arrow drowned in poison." She pulled out an arrow and offered it to Ronan. He accepted it, holding it by the fletching.

"Then we should get him to the village quickly." Rhys said. He offered to take the sled's reins and began to pull. Eirlys followed closely. "Are you coming, Ronan?" Rhys shouted back.

Ronan wondered if his mother had known Tristan was alive. Now that he thought about it, she did not look too grieved, had never even mentioned Tristan's death. Ronan hadn't brought it up. It wasn't that he hadn't cared about his mother's grief; he just never was one to talk about those things. If she did know all along, why hadn't she told him, again?

"I'm coming." Ronan mumbled as he followed after, twirling the arrow absentmindedly in his hand, resentment smoldering within him as he glanced again at the sled carrying his half-brother hero.


	3. Chapter 3

THREE

_The song ravaged his mind still. It droned on and on, like an incessant cricket on a cold summer's night. The eerie tune was one he knew well, ever since he drank that vial of darkspawn blood. He'd been able to block it out for some time. But now, it grew louder, refused to go away, calling to him. _

_If he was dead, why did he still hear the cursed song? If he were still alive, why could he not enter the Fade? He only wanted to see her, to make sure she was all right. Instead, there was only darkness and a burning pain. And the song. He wanted to rip his ears out, but the song was inside his head, and he couldn't move._

_Voices drifted through the chilling song. They were familiar, but they were distant. And they were not the one he wanted to hear most… _

_Tristan was trapped in his own body. His own body was a cage he didn't know how to break free of. Through all the pain, through all the noise in his head and outside of it, he longed for death._

…

"What happened?" Siofra asked, bending over slightly as she entered the _aravel_. She was breathless from her run here. The mere mention of his name had spurred her quickly away from the children she had been telling stories to, passing the time in the cold winter day.

"Your son is alive, that's all you need to know." Ronan answered. He did not look at her, but his eyes pierced the _aravel's _wall so hard, Siofra thought for a moment a hole would appear. He turned around and brushed past her to leave the _aravel_. "But I'm sure you knew that already."

"Ronan!" Siofra called out to him, attempting to stay him, but he was already gone.

"Let him be." Silas said from the rear of the _aravel_. Siofra turned her attention to him, her eyes first grazing over the still form under the blankets. Silas continued, "He is right to be angry."

Siofra went to her son's side, hunched over for the _aravel_ was not tall enough to stand in as it was made for sleeping, not living in. She placed a hand on his forehead, shuddering as she felt the heat emanate from him. Her heart fell at Tristan's waxen complexion. She gazed at Silas questioningly.

"Why should Ronan be angry?" she asked.

"You throw everything aside when that man comes around." Silas inclined his head towards Tristan.

"He is my son!" Siofra said sharply. She had the feeling that Silas was more talking of his own anger than Ronan's. Ronan had insinuated that she knew all along that Tristan was alive. And that was true. She hadn't told anyone. That had been Tristan's wish. Ronan was probably angry with her for keeping that secret. But Silas…

"He is the son the love of your life gave you. The son that you gave up, who doesn't care for you the way you do him. The son that pretended to be dead, like a coward." Silas said quietly, but with a slight hint of anger that Siofra knew well. _He is jealous_, she thought, _I never loved him the way he loved me_. That didn't mean he could insult Tristan. She narrowed her gaze at Silas.

"How dare you speak like this." Siofra said. "If you are angry with me, so be it. Do not insult my son."

"If it weren't for me, you would be living in shame for bringing _your son_ here. He is human." Silas said. She noticed the arrow in his hand for the first time. She glanced at Tristan, pulling back the blankets slightly. He had a wound in his shoulder. She returned her gaze to her husband.

"I am not ashamed," she said stiffly. "And I know almost everyone in the clan knows the truth. They do not speak of it because they are afraid of you, but because they respect Tristan for everything he has done. Have you so soon forgotten everything he has done?"

Silas looked away, his brows knitting together in frustration. "Then you should be grateful that he did not become a coward so soon in his life…"

His hair had recently begun to grey. Worry lines were etched around his face, merging with his _vallaslin_, the price of being Keeper. Yet, now, Silas looked to her like he did all those years ago when he sat at her father's fire and called her naïve. Proud, arrogant, and hateful towards humans for something that happened generations ago. She pitied him at the moment, but that did not stop her anger from rising.

"I thought you had changed, Silas," she said. "You are starting to sound like your son. But then again, I always knew where Ronan got his unwarranted hatred for humans – from you. If this is all you have to offer, leave me be. I want to tend him alone."

Silas continued to sit unflinching under her gaze. He turned the arrow around in his hands and then brought it up to his nose, sniffing it. He tossed it onto Tristan and then stood up, his back hunched under the short ceiling.

"Felandaris _might_ help," he said before leaving the _aravel_.

Siofra sighed, thankful to finally be alone with her son. She studied his pale face, the sunken eye holes. _Felandaris might help_, she repeated what Silas had said in her head. She searched for Tristan's hand and clutched it to her face. It burned.

Letting it go, she studied his wound again. She couldn't tell if he had lost a lot of blood. If he had, perhaps the poison had seeped out with it. But that was wishful thinking. The fever had already set in. She fumbled around for a cloth and dipped it into a small dish of water she used to wash her hands and face in the morning, kept from freezing from the lantern's warm flame. With her other hand, she grasped the lantern and held it above the wound. As she cleaned it, her hand shook, realizing how grave the situation was, how right Silas was.

_Felandaris_ grew only where the Veil was thin. Wherever would they find it? And in the middle of winter, too. Perhaps there was another way. _Magic_, she thought, _perhaps Anwen could do something for him_. She put the lantern and the now dirty cloth down.

As she brushed away his hair from his face, she wondered who did this to him. Who would send a poison arrow his way? And she wondered where he had been off to, to collapse in the middle of nowhere in the snow. She thought of Brenna. Where was she? Perhaps she should send someone to fetch the woman. Brenna might know how and where to get _felandaris_ if magic was not an option.

Siofra wanted to cry, to let her tears fall onto Tristan, to let him know that she cared for him. She hadn't been there for him when he was young, but she could be there for him now. She could bring him back to life. She would not cry. She would be strong.

Siofra would not fail him this time.


	4. Chapter 4

FOUR

Anwen stepped back, not wishing to be run over by an angry-looking Silas. As the Keeper left her view, she thought how much Ronan looked like his father. The only difference between them being Ronan's eyes – they were Siofra's – and the hint of red that decorated Ronan's brown hair. Looking at Silas was like getting a glimpse of the future Ronan. Thinking of him made her wonder if he had returned from sentry duty.

She meandered through the cluster of _aravels_, making her way to the fire at the center of the village. The clan often gathered there, to pass the time together, and to warm their bodies. Anwen had come to enjoy the sound of the creaking _aravels_ in the wind. It reminded her of her journey here on the ship. It had not been pleasant, on the whole, for she had retched over the railings so many times she had lost count. But she had seen a different side of Ronan, a side that still made her heart flutter when she thought of it.

In the past few months that she had been there, she often found herself wondering why Ronan ever left his clan. They were a kind group of people, always looking out for one another, never making Anwen feel uncomfortable. And Ronan was lucky to have his parents still. Anwen would give anything to see her mother again, even if the woman had let the Templars take her away. As she rounded the last _aravel_, her thoughts were forgotten as she caught a glimpse of Ronan seated angrily in front of the fire.

His cloak was draped crookedly so that his arms were visible. He wore long gloves that reached to the bend of his elbows. It was easy to imagine, for one moment at the least, how Ronan had looked when he'd been whole. _Not much different_, Anwen conceded. He dug his sword – not the one his grandfather had crafted, but a plainer _dar'misan_ – into the ground with narrowed eyes and a scowl. Anwen thought him alone, but when she stepped forward she noticed the woman sitting across. A stranger – for a moment Anwen considered backing away, shy as she was, but Ronan had noticed her, calling out her name.

Anwen went to him, her eyes cast downward in a habit as old as she was, and took a seat on the cold log, close to him, but not too close. He continued to scowl, to dig his sword into the ground. Anwen could feel the anger seeping out of him. She glanced quickly across the fire to meet the puzzled gaze of the stranger woman before turning to Ronan.

"What angers you so?" she asked quietly.

Ronan stopped ramming his sword into the ground and turned to her. "Joy of joys, he lives," he said sourly.

Anwen raised her brow in confusion. _Ronan speaks happy words, but does it with a scowl on his face and an anything but happy undertone_. "Who?" she asked.

"Bah…" he shrugged and turned away. She wondered who could invoke such a reaction in Ronan and for what reason.

"The Hero of Ferelden," the stranger woman offered from across the fire. "I am Eirlys. I found the man on my way to the forest."

"Oh." Anwen said in reply. She was still confused though. What did the Hero of Ferelden have to do with Ronan? "Why does this anger you so?"

"I've asked the same of him myself." Eirlys said. "He won't tell me."

Ronan frowned at the woman, stood up abruptly and then turned to Anwen, his hand held out. "Come with me."

Anwen let herself be pulled up, the pressure of his hand over hers sending a jolt through her body, a flutter in her stomach. He rushed ahead, still gripping her hand, and she nearly fell over keeping up with his hasty pace. He led her to the _aravel _where she slept, stomping up the ramp, pushing aside the hides angrily to step inside. Ronan let her go as he lit the small lantern for light. She rubbed her hand, still feeling his warmth around it.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes toward her hand. "I'm sorry if I did."

She shook her head. "You did not."

Ronan leaned back with a sigh that mingled with the cold winter wind which rushed through the cracks of the _aravel_. Anwen sat across from him and hugged her knees to her chest. She watched Ronan curiously, the lantern's light flickering in his blue eyes. She could feel the heat emanating from his body and was warmed by it.

"So," Anwen ventured. "Why did you bring me here?"

He watched her, considering his words she guessed. His scowl went away suddenly and was replaced by a playful grin. Anwen melted a little at the look, the heat rushing to her cheeks. She unconsciously shifted into a cross-legged position.

"Despite what others may think, I did not bring you here to ravish you." Ronan said, causing her to blush even more. She hoped the poor light would hide her color. "I wanted to talk."

Anwen cleared her throat. "Does this have to do with the Hero of Ferelden?"

Ronan nodded, his grin wearing away. "It does. The reason I am so angry… well… he is my brother, half-brother anyway."

Anwen couldn't help her eyes widening in surprise. She knew that Ronan had a brother, but he had rarely spoken of him, and she had not thought to ask about him. She would have thought having the Hero of Ferelden for a brother would be something to be proud of, but there was obviously something there that Ronan couldn't accept. "Half-brother?" she asked, figuring that must have something to do with his anger.

"My mother's secret. She kept it from everyone for a long time. She fawns over him, her love child from her human lover. It sickens me." Ronan said. Anwen expected to see disgust in his face, but there was only pain in his features. He continued, "Everyone thought him dead. But here he is, alive, for a little while longer anyway. I know my mother knew. Another secret she kept to herself…"

Anwen remembered Silas stomping through the village, just as angry as Ronan. "Does your father know about all this?"

"He knows. He always knew." Ronan said.

"Ronan, are you angry because your brother is alive, or because your mother lied to you?"

"Because of the lie, obviously." Ronan snapped. "Do you think me that heartless? To be angry that somebody is alive? I don't hate my brother – I just dislike him, a lot."

"Why?"

Ronan shrugged. "He gets on my nerves, with his heroicness and cowardice all rolled into one."

"Isn't that what brothers are supposed to do?" Anwen's heart sank as she thought of Ty and Vance. There had been a lot of love between the two, but there was also that occasional annoyance and irritation with one another. Without a blood bond, Anwen thought none of that possible.

"I don't know. Up until a few years ago I was an only child…" Ronan looked away sadly. "When all along my mother had been pining for a human, thinking of her lost son, the son she had given up. I was nothing, only a consolation. Still am…"

Anwen reached for his hand and squeezed it. "You are Ronan. The very same Ronan that bravely rescued me from the Gallows. That is something," she reassured him. Her heart broke for him. That pain she would see in his face in the Free Marches when he thought no one looking was plain for her to see now. She wondered what it was all about. If it was just about his family, or if there was something more.

He flashed her a pitiful grin. "This is stupid. Forget I ever said anything." He gently wrenched his hand free from her grip and stood up to leave the small _aravel_, his cloak brushing against her arm as he did so.

_That's easy for you to say_, she thought. This talk had only brought more questions to Anwen's mind. What was he really so pained about? Was he ashamed of his mother… or himself? Anwen vowed to somehow get to the bottom of it. She cared for Ronan, deeply. Her feelings for him had grown. She could tell he felt something for her, too. For he never before would have confided in her like this. She knew there was something standing between them. Ty, maybe? She'd never loved him, not as anything other than a great friend.

Anwen knew also that she would have to forget about Starkhaven or she'd only ever be that girl whom everyone thought nice, but nobody ever loved because she wouldn't let them. She shuddered, and then lay back on the furs, thinking of how to do all that she wished.


	5. Chapter 5

FIVE

_Brenna…_

_He saw her in his mind, as he had seen her not so long ago. It was a memory then. It was not real. Had it ever been real?_

_Brenna was wearing a large woolen tunic that hid all of her curves. She resembled a sack of potatoes, but Tristan did not say anything. Brenna's wrath was not something he wanted to behold at the moment. She seemed to notice his puzzled look. She rubbed a hand seductively down her waist and grabbed hold of a loose thread._

"_Not a fan, I take it?" she asked with a playful grin._

"_Well, I mean, I've seen you in nicer things." Tristan said. He ran a hand through his hair, wondering if maybe he should have kept his mouth shut._

_Brenna walked slowly towards him, her hips swaying teasingly. She placed her free hand on his chest, the tips of her fingers touching him lightly. "What are you going to do about it?" she asked, running her tongue over her cherry red lips. Tristan sucked in his breath. "Do you want to destroy this ugly garment?" _

_Tristan did not know what to say. He could barely think as Brenna wound the loose thread around her finger. He lifted his shoulders up in a shrug. Brenna moved her hand from his chest, took hold of his hand, and then placed the loose thread into it. She backed away slightly and the thread unraveled just a little, tearing away part of the bottom of the tunic._

"_Hold this thread," she said and then turned around. She glanced coyly over her shoulder, her raven colored hair falling over her green eyes in a hauntingly seductive manner. "Whatever you do, whatever happens, do not let go."_

_Tristan raised a brow at Brenna as she began to walk away. She walked – no, sauntered like a cat – to the end of the room and Tristan did not let go of the thread. The bottom of the tunic was unraveling quickly. She laughed, so tantalizingly, as she saw the wide eyed realization dawn on Tristan's face._

"_You sneaky vixen," he said with a wide grin._

_Brenna twirled around once, the thread unraveled the tunic more. Her knees appeared. She placed a hand under the tunic and slowly pulled the garment up to above her thighs._

"_Uh oh. I'll soon be naked," she taunted as she pulled the tunic back down, pretending at modesty. Tristan pulled on the thread and she unraveled further. She laughed and then walked around the room, twirling around, making as much movement as needed to finish off the tunic. Soon her buttocks were in view, her belly, her pearlescent breasts. Tristan pulled the thread, reeling her in as if he were a fisherman and she, a dazzling mermaid, his catch. The rest of the tunic fell to the floor as he caught her in his arms._

"_Oh my, I've come undone!" Brenna joked, wrapping her arms around him. Tristan shook his head playfully and then pulled her close for a kiss._

_He cried out in pain as he felt her against him, as he tasted her lips upon his own, as if she were truly there._

…

Siofra nearly jumped back as the faint moan of pain reached her ears. Tristan jerked in his sleep and then remained still again. She reached out for her son, feeling his forehead, still scalding hot. She let out a small sigh of worry.

A slight shuffle in the entrance of the _aravel_ caused her to take her attention away from her son. Siofra cracked a small smile as she viewed Anwen standing hunched over awkwardly, her eyes downcast at the perceived intrusion.

"Anwen," Siofra called out softly, reassuring the young woman. "Come sit by me."

Anwen did as Siofra asked, striding over to her side. She sat down, her back straightening in the now ample space above her. Siofra followed Anwen's gaze trail over Tristan, curious and sympathetic she judged it to be. Anwen's eyes met Siofra's and the girl turned away shyly. Siofra returned to her vigil over her son. She wished he would wake, that she could hear his voice again.

"I would ask a favour of you, dear." Siofra broke the silence.

"I would do anything you ask of me." Anwen said. "I am grateful for a place among your clan."

Siofra smiled slightly, reaching for Anwen's hand and squeezing it in thanks. Ronan had a kind heart beneath his smug exterior. She hadn't been too surprised when he returned with Anwen and explained her circumstances. Siofra remembered only too well Rory's loathing of the Circle, and by all accounts, the Free Marches was stricter and more commanding of its mages. She was glad that Tristan had made his way out of the Circle – but if it was at too high a cost… she turned away from her son to stop herself from imagining the worst. She focused on Anwen.

"This man lying here is my son." Siofra said. "I'm sure Ronan has told you?"

Anwen nodded, a small blush appearing on her cheeks. "Yes, he has."

"Then I would ask, if you know anything, herbs, magic that can help, that you would."

"I fear I can't be much help…" Anwen had returned her gaze to Tristan.

"Anything. Please." Siofra prodded. She had noticed the lack of confidence the young woman possessed. At the moment, however, Siofra could not sympathize with the girl, not when her son's life hung in the balance.

"I-I may know of a spell… that might keep the fever from worsening, but nothing for the poison… I'm sorry." Anwen studied her hands in response.

"It is a slow moving poison, or else he'd be dead by now. I have removed what I could from the wound. We can only pray that it has not spread already. And we must find some _felandaris_, for that can be made into an antidote. It is known to remove certain poisons from the bloodstream. Ironic, since most use it only as a poison, a _demon weed_. But we have often used it to heal. And I hope it will work on this poison." Siofra said, her hand shaking again at the thought of failing her son again. "Your spell will help, in the meantime."

"I will try…" Anwen said quietly, still studying her hands.

"Do you need time to prepare?" Siofra asked, curious at Anwen's behavior.

Anwen shrugged. "It's just… it's just that I have never been good at casting spells. I always seem to jumble them, sending them where they are not needed."

Siofra covered Anwen's hands with her own. "That was before. This is now. You can do it."

Anwen took a deep breath, sending a grateful look to Siofra. "I will try."

"That is all I ask." Siofra let go of Anwen, moving aside for the young woman to sit closer to Tristan.

…

_Breathe…_

Anwen held her breath, despite what her mind, what her lungs were telling her. Her chest was tight with anxiety, with the fear of disappointing everyone. Casting spells may look easy, and most mages made it look that way, but it wasn't so for Anwen. It never had been.

She held onto her breath still, closing her eyes, stifling the tight feeling in her chest. When it was finally gone, she exhaled slowly. She flicked her gaze toward the woman waiting nervously beside her. The tight feeling immediately threatened to return.

_Focus…_

Anwen quickly turned her attention to the pale figure lying before her – Tristan. He was a hero, saving the world by stopping a Blight. He was a mage like herself and he was Siofra's son. Still, he was a stranger to her and none of those facts grew her fear of failure quite like the thought of disappointing Ronan, yet again.

Ronan had believed in her magic, that she could do much more than just form into a wolf. He'd prodded her, fumed at her to use her magic. And she never could, until it was too late. Now, his brother needed her. And though Ronan didn't seem to care so much about him, Anwen did not want to fail.

_Maker, please…_

She focused on Tristan's labored breathing, pushing her fears away, willing them into the dark caverns of her mind. She thought instead of the spell, and as her eyes closed again, she felt her body pulsate with the healing energy she drew from the Fade.

Too late to stop now, she lifted her hands, forcing the energy out of her shaky palms, praying that it would go where it was needed. It released with a burst, sending a chill down her spine. She felt tired, drained, and slumped forward into the blankets.

The _aravel_ was quiet but for the creaks made by the wind, the cracking sounds made by the cold. Anwen was afraid to open her eyes, to intrude upon the eerie tranquility.

_Did it work?_

She trembled slightly at the light touch on her shoulder.

"Anwen, dear…" Siofra said softly.

Anwen sat up and rubbed her eyes open. She turned to Siofra, her heart pounding, her vision blurry still, and unable to form the words her mind was already asking.

_Did I do it? Did I fail?_

"I saw the healing power go into him." Siofra said, gesturing to her son, as if she had known what Anwen was thinking. "Feel for yourself. The fever has broken."

Anwen studied Tristan. He looked no different from before. He was still pale, still breathing harshly. She placed a hand on his forehead, expecting to be scalded, unable to believe Siofra. But Siofra was right – Tristan was no longer burning. She removed her hand and scrutinized him further.

_There is color in his cheeks!_

She listened carefully and found that his breathing was not so labored anymore.

"You are a gift to this clan." Siofra said, reaching for Anwen's hand. Anwen let the woman grip her, but as she caught sight of the arrow wound in Tristan's shoulder, she smelled the poison still within him. She suppressed a shudder.

_He looks so much like Siofra_, she thought with sadness. _He sleeps still, because the poison remains in him_. She did not say that aloud, for it was plain to see. She did not want to sunder Siofra's hopes.

_I may have only eased his passage… is that success or failure?_

"I wish I could do more." Anwen whispered. Her heart twisted at the pitiful smile Siofra gave her in return.

"If it is the gods' will that he recover, then he will. If not, I will do everything I can to change their will." Siofra let go of Anwen's hand and slid next to her son, a determined look on her face.

_May the Maker make it so as well._


	6. Chapter 6

SIX

The cold roughness of the tree stump seeped through his cloak, into his back. But he did not really notice. He furiously ran a whetstone across his blade, cursing under his breath as the sword shifted. Sharpening a sword used to be so easy. Now, it was awkward, it was tiresome, and it only added to his fury. He let go of the sword in frustration.

Ronan took a deep breath, closing his eyes to the world as he sought to grasp control over his anger. _Why did I do that? Why did I confide in her? _He never meant to do that. He never meant to reach so deep inside himself and pull it all out for Anwen to see. Her eyes had met his own in concern, and he had given in. Now he felt like a fool.

"Feelings…" Ronan whispered angrily. _They're nothing but trouble to have_.

Ronan felt a soft pressure dig into his side. He opened his eyes to see the wolf he'd named Ash years ago. The wolf yawned, his sharp teeth showing signs of a recent feeding, and then lay down on his stomach with his paws stretched out before him. Ronan rubbed Ash behind the ears before the wolf settled his head onto his paws and closed his eyes.

He reached for his sword, planting it into the ground slightly, and then placing his stump on the hilt to steady it, he grabbed hold of the whetstone and tried again to sharpen the blade. Now that some of his fury had lost steam, he managed to handle the action. He lost himself to the sharp sound of the movement. He didn't notice the group creep up before him. It was only when Ash shifted and whined that Ronan looked up.

His father stood before him, staring and clutching at the edge of his cloak. Ronan noticed the bones of Silas' knuckles sticking out sharply. Strangely, he hadn't noticed how his father was aging. It never occurred to him that his father would ever get old. His face seemed to have weathered sharply in just the past year. Ronan wondered if his disappearance had anything to do with it, then swiftly thought better of that.

Behind Silas, feet shuffled. Ronan shifted his attention to the followers – Eirlys, the woman who had found Tristan in the snow was one, Merrion, a distinguished hunter of the clan was another, and Ronan couldn't help but frown as his eyes rested on Harshal. Harshal grinned widely at Ronan, a spark of challenge in his eyes. Ronan tossed the whetstone to the ground and gripped the hilt of his sword. He was about to answer Harshal's taunting look when Silas finally spoke.

"Harshal, Merrion, Eirlys, wait for me at the entrance." Silas said, glancing over his shoulder at his followers. Merrion nodded, gripping Harshal by the arm and pulling him away. Eirlys followed after a curious glance in Ronan's direction.

Ronan felt a brief albeit painful shock in his left arm – the handless one. _One time_, he thought, _I led the young men around into mischief. Now I am just a loser, a loner_. He felt a pang of regret at the careless young man he used to be. He shook the feelings away and turned his eyes upwards to his father.

"Entrance to what?" he asked.

Silas stared around himself. A few snowflakes began drifting down from the sky, melting on contact. Ronan waited impatiently for his father to answer him, but he knew better than to prod him. After what seemed like an eternity, after what seemed like a million snowflakes had slowly fallen, Silas finally met Ronan's gaze.

"The entrance to the ruins," he said.

Ronan lifted a brow. "Why are you going there?" he asked.

Much to Ronan's dismay, Silas chose to ignore his question. Instead, he answered with one of his own. "What are you doing here?"

"I was sharpening my sword." Ronan replied. He pulled the sword out from the ground and held it upwards for his father to see.

"Why not do it in the village?" Silas asked, not even bothering to look at the sword.

Ronan shrugged. _I wanted to be alone_, he thought. He would never say that to his father, though. Silas would not understand and Ronan didn't have the patience to explain, though he doubted Silas would even bother to try and understand or demand an explanation anyway.

"Where is your grandfather's sword?" Silas narrowed his eyes. They bore into Ronan accusingly. "I notice you do not use it anymore."

Ronan wanted to look away from that gaze. He was afraid his shame would show through and he didn't want his father to see that. Instead, he held it. "It is in a safe place," he replied.

It was Silas who looked away, breaking the gaze. He let out a short sigh. "You disappeared. You returned home, with an apostate, with coins. And then you cast aside your grandfather's sword. I don't know what to think of you anymore, my son."

Ronan stood up, angry at his father's words. He felt the need to defend himself. "It's not like that."

"It's not like what?"

"Like… whatever you think of me. Please do not think ill of me." Ronan found himself at a loss for words. His father watched him with disappointment written all over his face. Why was it always so hard to please him? _Why do I even need his approval?_ "You don't know what happened."

"And you have only yourself to blame for that. Your refusal to speak of what happened while you were away is your own fault, not mine." Silas said.

"You…" Ronan turned his back on his father, so swiftly that Ash jumped up in fright. "You don't care anyway, and you wouldn't understand."

He heard the sharp intake of breath. Ronan could only imagine the frown dressing his father's face, for he did not want to look upon him again.

"The others wait for me. Come if you like."

Ronan turned around in surprise, despite his reluctance to do so just a moment ago. "For what reason?"

"To search for a miracle." Silas said, already making his way toward the ruins.

Ronan stood rooted to the ground. _By the gods. A miracle? It could only be for that big oaf. Even father wants to save him._ Even so, Silas had asked him to come. It might be dangerous in the ruins, if there were still things from the Veil around. He couldn't let his father walk into that. And he couldn't let Harshal claim any glory.

Reluctantly, he followed his father. Ash loped at his heels, his ears perked for sounds of danger.

_Funny, I never hated Harshal before…_

…

Eirlys tucked her hands beneath her cloak, hoping for them to warm enough for them to be useful. She was not used to the frigid cold. She'd been born near the borders of Orlais, where the winters were not the same, not nearly as rough. Most of the time, she'd avoided travelling during the winter, but something had drawn her to Ferelden. She thought she might have some luck here. As to why she thought that, she didn't really know.

When she had overheard the Keeper recruiting two of his hunters for a foray into ancient ruins, she'd eagerly volunteered her blade despite his warnings of the many dangers lurking there from the tears in the Veil. There was no better way to gain favour than by proving oneself in battle after all. And she'd need the favour of the Keeper to gain the ears of the whole clan.

"What a toadstool," said the hunter named Harshal as they waited for the Keeper to catch up with them. He smugly crossed his arms across his chest, a curled lip of disgust transforming his face. "Did you see how he held his sword? All I could see was his ridiculous stump shaking at me like an angry old man. As if I would frighten at such a gesture."

Harshal chuckled at his own words. _You look like a toad_, Eirlys thought as Harshal's face puffed up as he laughed. The other hunter was not amused at all – he punched Harshal in the shoulder.

"Do not speak ill of the Keeper's son." Merrion warned.

Harshal rubbed his shoulder, his laughter subsided. A scowl covered his face now. "Why not?"

Merrion reached over and grabbed Harshal's cloak strings, pulling him close. His expression was threatening. Eirlys shifted her feet nervously. _I do not relish the thought of breaking up a fight between these two…_

"You forget so soon? Your head is so swelled up by your idiotic ego that you cannot remember?" Merrion said, rather quietly for a threat, Eirlys thought.

"Watch what you say Merrion." Harshal pushed Merrion away and brushed off his cloak. "You do not frighten me either."

Merrion laughed in what Eirlys assumed to be disbelief. "Ronan is twice the man you are, even without his hand. I did not see you leading the charge against the slavers. I did not see you save the village. My wife and children are alive and _free_ thanks to Ronan. So save your insults for somebody who cares."

Eirlys felt a shiver run through her at Merrion's words. _This Ronan, he fought off slavers? _"Is this true?" she asked.

Merrion turned his attention to her and nodded. "It is true. He ran through the slavers as if he were possessed by Elgar'nan himself. It was to these same slavers he lost his hand. It was his sacrifice that saved the clan."

Harshal snorted. "He had the help of the Grey Wardens, one of them the Hero of Ferelden. I was in chains. He never was."

"Still your serpent tongue," Merrion warned as the sound of footsteps crunching into the snow reached their ears. "They come."

"I fear them not," Harshal muttered as the Keeper and his son came into view. Even so, he shut his mouth. Eirlys could not help but chuckle and received a pouty glare from the hunter.

She only too happily tore her attention away from the toad-like glare of the hunter to the arrival of the Keeper and his son. It was a heartwarming sight for Eirlys. The regal way that the Keeper held his head, the elegant trot through the snow, the wisdom etched into his face, all with his son by his side, a younger vision of himself. A magnificent wolf walked behind them, seeming to protect them as if it were a god in disguise. It was moments like this that pushed her dreams to the brink.

"Harshal, Merrion, ready yourselves, we go into the ruins," the Keeper said without so much of a glance at Eirlys, breaking the serenity of the vision.

"What about me?" Ronan asked. Things were not as heartwarming as they looked after all.

"You and Eirlys stand guard," the Keeper replied. Harshal grinned haughtily in Ronan's direction.

"Here?" Ronan asked in anger.

His father turned on him and with a stern glare, nodded before turning back and gesturing for the two hunters to follow him. Ronan visibly fumed as he watched his father enter the dark entrance to the ruins with Merrion and Harshal. When they were out of sight, when they had seeped into the shadows like wraiths, he grumbled out loud.

"Bitch and a half." Ronan cursed. "By Elgar'nan, I swear…" Eirlys watched as Ronan's fist swung through the air. She winced, thinking he was about to hit the cold hard stump of a nearby tree, but he stopped short of that. _At least he has some sense…_

"Way to keep calm," she quipped. He turned his eyes on her, a sparkly blue that she had yet to notice in her brief encounters with him. They were like pools of warm ocean water and if they were not so angered, she might take comfort in them on this frigid day.

"He takes that… _halla _turd with him, but he leaves me here!" Ronan said. "The cripple… and the woman."

She knew he was angry, but she resented being tossed into such a group. She watched as he paced back and forth, kicking at the snow. The wolf that had been at his side when he arrived had loped off into the trees at the tirade. Eirlys wanted to call him out on his insult toward her, but as she watched his angry pacing, she noticed the grace in his movements, the sword at his back, and remembered the words of Merrion. If Ronan were a dwarf, he would make quite the berserker. _Perhaps_, she thought,_ it is him I should gain favour with. Perhaps, it is him I came to Ferelden for…_

"Or," Eirlys said loudly, "it is the cherished son and the honoured guest that your father left to guard. Either way, we don't need to listen."

Ronan stopped his incessant pacing and facing her, he grinned widely. "You're right. We are not children, we do not have to obey his every word."

Unsheathing his sword, he brushed past her quickly into the darkness of the ruins. Smiling, Eirlys did the same.

…

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was not pitch black in the cave, for a few streams of sunshine filtered through, but everything was shades of grey. However was his father going to find _felandaris_ in this poor light?

Ronan felt the presence of Eirlys at his side. He did not completely trust the stranger, for she had never stated her reasons for visiting the clan in the middle of winter. Only crazy people travelled at this time of year, when it was coldest, when the snow was deepest. He wasn't yet sure if Eirlys was crazy or not, so he unconsciously tightened his grip on his sword.

Eirlys crouched to examine the uneven floor of the ruins, tossing things aside with her fingers. She stood up and pointed in the direction of his father's travel. "They went that way."

_She can track, at least_, he thought as they began to make their way through the ruins, avoiding roots and crumbling parts of the ruin's floor. The quiet was unnerving – they could not even hear the footsteps of the others. Ronan wondered if the Veil was even still torn. He pushed away a large spider web, shaking the thing from his arms as they passed by it. He glanced at the ceiling and then at the corners, wary of the giant kinds of spiders he'd encountered before.

_Ty…_ but he saw nothing there. He needed to shake the memory of his friend away. It was not the time to think of him.

"Did you put the arrow to my… to the Hero?" he asked in an effort to divert his mind away from the past. Eirlys slowed her pace and glared at him through the dim light. No doubt, she was insulted. Ronan shrugged. "Can't blame a man for being suspicious, can you? Especially when you are the only witness."

"I did not see what happened." Eirlys replied. "I found him in the snow. I was… going to leave him there – he was covered in soot. I thought he might have been the culprit who started the great blaze in the distance."

"Something was on fire?" Ronan asked with interest. Suddenly, all thoughts of spiders and Ty were washed away. _A fire? _

"Oh yes, before the blizzard it began, raging on throughout the storm, burning itself out when the snow had finally ceased to fall." Eirlys explained.

Ronan wondered if Tristan had anything to do with the fire. If he was covered in soot… was he the culprit as Eirlys had assumed? If he knew what was on fire, he might have a better idea. "Did you see what was on fire?"

"I avoided it." Eirlys responded with a shrug. "Can you blame a woman for not wanting to run into the vandals involved in that?"

"But you thought you did run into the _vandal_. You said you were going to leave him there. What changed your mind?"

"I discovered he had the blood of the people running through him. Am I, was I wrong to assume that?" Eirlys tilted her head toward him, arching her brow in question.

Ronan hesitated. He did not completely trust Eirlys. She said she had not put the poisoned arrow into Tristan. And it only made sense, otherwise why would she be helping to find the antidote? But it could all be some sort of trick. He sighed, giving in. What difference did it make if she knew the truth? She could easily find out from someone else in the clan. "He _is_ of the people…"

"Your brother?"

She already suspected then. "Unfortunately." Ronan admitted.

Eirlys stopped in her tracks, put a hand on his shoulder, threw back her head and laughed heartily. And loudly.

"Not so loud!" he warned, though he was tempted to join in her infectious laughter.

"Apologies," she said as she returned her hand to her side.

"Do you think he had something to do with the fire?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not." Eirlys said, striding forward again with a roll of her shoulders. "I did see other tracks filled with snow. It is possible he was following those before he was shot, or before he collapsed from the wound. It is hard to tell what came when."

_Was Tristan already wounded when he started to track whomever left the tracks, or was he shot down as he pursued them? _Ronan wondered what the big oaf had gotten himself into. And where was Brenna in all this? Last he'd seen her she was all smiles and disgustingly glowing about seeing Tristan again.

Ronan was so lost in his thoughts that he saw but did not register the movement of the ground beneath him until it was too late. A skeletal hand, rotting and dripping with worms, shot up from beneath the cracks in the stone floor. It reached for Eirlys' leg, seeking a lever to pull itself up.

"Eirlys!" Ronan shouted out a warning. But she had already swung her sword, severing the skeletal hand from its arm. Ronan turned away as he felt the phantom of his lost hand and a stab of pain shoot through the arm. Burying the feeling, he turned back to Eirlys who was shaking the thing from her boot.

"I wonder if the others ran into these things." Eirlys said.

The cracks in the ground widened as more skeletons shot through them, climbing out shakily, unsteady on their ancient bones. Ronan sighed and shook his head.

"With my luck," he said, kicking at a hand reaching for his legs, "the undead have chosen this moment to awaken."

"Nothing like a good challenge for the blade, though, right?" Eirlys said with a smile. She cut through a skeleton rumbling toward her awkwardly.

"Ha, I like how you think." Ronan responded, a grin spreading over his face as he blocked a clumsy swing from a skeleton. He pushed the creature back with a kick and then brought his sword down onto it, sending its bones scattered onto the ground.

They hacked, they slashed, and they swung at the undead that came rattling towards them. The sound of the bones hitting the stone was oddly a peaceful melody. Ronan had not brought his shield, but it did not really matter, for the skeletons were clumsy and their weapons were dulled and rusted from years of disuse. He watched as Eirlys darted around, cutting down their foes with her sword, bashing them with her shield. She was quite the warrior, he had to admit, and a sight to see.

It was as if all the skeletons in the ruins were coming for them. The wave kept on coming and Ronan wondered if the same were happening to his father. The thought that Merrion was with him lightened his worry, but the thought that Harshal was there as well, brought it back. _It should be me with father, not Harshal…_ he thought as he twisted his sword in the rib cage of a skeleton, pushing it up through the neck, breaking it into pieces with one strong thrust.

He gazed around him in the dim light. It seemed as if all before him were vanquished. But he did not see Eirlys. He stepped backward, bumping into something solid. He turned around swiftly to find Eirlys before him, sword held at the ready to strike. She breathed a sigh of relief and lowered her sword.

"_Aneth era_. We meet again," she said. "I think we have dealt with them all."

"We have." Ronan agreed as he surveyed the piles of bones and rotting flesh.

"Do you think that was all?" Eirlys asked.

Ronan's ears were pierced by loud screams. He had to close his eyes to try and stifle the screams. Between the screams were shouts. _Father…_

"What was that?" Eirlys asked. She had a painful expression on her face, no doubt brought about by the screams.

"Shrieks." Ronan said, taking off towards the piercing sounds. He ran quickly, the worry for his father bringing his blood to a boil. If anything were to happen to his father…

He came to a halt as he reached the others. The piercing screams of the shrieks was almost too much to handle. His head throbbed in pain at the sounds, but the shadowy creatures surrounded his father and the two hunters. They fought against the shrieks languidly, the high pitched sounds making it difficult to swing accurately.

Ronan charged at one of the creatures, his sword hitting its arm, causing it to scream in pain. Ronan faltered for a second, the shriek turning on him with dangerously sharp claws, before Eirlys dashed in, stabbing the creature through the middle, silencing it forever.

Ronan quickly moved on to the next one, bringing his sword through the neck cleanly before the creature could use its claws on him. The shrieks scattered at the intrusion so that his father, Merrion, and Harshal were no longer surrounded. Fighting through the terrible noise, they were eventually able to finish off the creatures. When all was done, Ronan felt the heavy gaze of his father fall onto him.

"I told you to stay away." Silas said.

Ronan leaned over his sword planted into the ground, catching his breath. Now that the battle was over, some of his energy had waned away. At his father's words however, he straightened up and stiffened in anger. _The nerve…_ "Then you should be happy that you have such a disobedient child, else wise you might never have left these ruins."

Silas glowered at him but said nothing else on the matter, moving instead to inspect the ruins. Ronan caught the scowl on Harshal's face and was tempted to wipe it off but thought better of it. His father was already angry enough with him. Instead, he lifted his fist toward the hunter and extended his middle finger to show him what he thought of him. Harshal's lip flickered in anger and Ronan heard a chuckle from Eirlys before he turned to watch his father.

"What now, Keeper?" Merrion asked, breaking through the silence.

After a long moment, Silas waved them forward in answer. "We find _felandaris_."

Ronan followed and Silas did not object.

_Perhaps I have finally proven myself to him…_


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN

"_Come back to me, lover."_

_He'd been staring out the window, mesmerized by the sun rising to shine against the new fallen snow, creating a sparkly white world. Just the night before, the ground had been brown and lifeless, the gnarled, leafless limbs of the trees reminiscent of a haunting place beyond death. Now, the snow had breathed vibrancy into the landscape. He thought it funny that he would associate winter with life, it was not often thought of in that way. But as he turned to gaze at the woman that called to him, he knew why he felt so alive._

"_Brenna," he whispered, making his way back to the old bed. "You've wakened."_

_She sat up, holding the furs to her neck with one hand while rubbing the tiredness from her eyes with the other. He sat by her, feeling the warmth of her beneath the furs reach into his own body. He caught a glimpse of her shoulder – perfectly round and white. He leaned over and kissed it._

"_Good morning to you, too, Tristan." She gently pulled his head up and covered his mouth with her own. Her kisses never failed to send him shudders of delight. When they broke free, her vivid green eyes stared him down in curiousity. "What was so interesting that you'd stand at the window for so long?"_

"_Nothing as beautiful as you." Tristan replied with a grin._

"_I never tire of you saying things like that, but… really."_

_Tristan chuckled. "The snows have come. I was just admiring the landscape."_

"_Do we have enough wood for the fire?" she asked, always the practical one. He shrugged and then crawled over her, making sure to brush against her. As he lay down at her side, he felt a lump in the furs._

"_What is this?"_

"_What?" Brenna reached under the furs and then laughed. "It's the cat."_

"_The cat? Really?" Tristan patted the lump. "You've traded me for the cat?"_

_Brenna smiled widely, her eyes crinkling up in delight. "Never." She lifted the blankets and seconds later the cat, a black and white ball of fur, lazily came trotting out, stretching forward on its paws so that its behind and tail rested far in the air. _

"_Shoo, kitty, shoo." Tristan picked up the cat and gently placed it on the floor beside the bed. It scrambled away, hungry probably. "Now I can take my place." He wriggled under the furs and snuggled close to Brenna, the heat of her bare skin enough to drive him over the edge._

"_We need wood for the fire," she said, thwarting him in his efforts for a more pleasurable morning welcome. _

"_I'll use my magic to warm us," he slipped his hand downwards, warming it on purpose, emitting a gasp from Brenna's mouth._

"_Can we be serious here, for just one moment…" she wriggled free of him, much to his annoyance. He tried again. "Maker, you are making this really hard…"_

"_That's what you do to me…" he whispered in her ear. He had her now, he knew. There would be no more talk of firewood for the next little while. Her laugher echoed through his mind until he realized he wasn't really there. It was only a memory. Something was drawing him away from it._

_No, please, let me be._

…

He was no longer fevered, but his dreams brought him pain. Siofra watched helplessly as the planes of his face transformed from peaceful to troubled in only seconds. She placed her hand on his cheek, hoping that somewhere inside himself, Tristan would recognize it as a calming gesture, a gesture meant to bring peace to his mind. After a moment, he stilled and his features relaxed once again. _If only he would awaken_, she thought as she removed her hand.

She felt a cold breeze briefly enter into the _aravel_. Glancing over her shoulder, she viewed the lithe form of Anwen entering, holding a bundle of sorts to her chest.

"I am sorry for disturbing you… the women…" she held the bundle to Siofra, offering it to her. "…they asked me to give this to you."

Siofra accepted the bundle. As she unwrapped it, the smell of newly baked bread wafted upwards and the hunger she had been ignoring returned in full force, rumbling through her stomach almost painfully. She quickly wrapped it back up. How could she eat when her son could not? When he could not even open his eyes?

"Thank you, Anwen, but I cannot eat," Siofra explained when Anwen regarded her quizzically as she put the bundle of food to the side.

"They worry for you." Anwen said.

"It is not me they should worry for, but my son."

Anwen had no answer to that. She only lingered in the small space, her eyes wandering over the still form of Tristan, until she noticed Siofra's eyes upon her. Anwen quickly looked away, flustered it seemed. Siofra wondered what was so interesting about the ground beneath, for that was always where Anwen gazed. She knew the woman was shy, but there were other more interesting places to gaze upon.

"He is…" Anwen began tentatively. She managed to meet Siofra's eyes. "He really is _the Hero_?"

Siofra nodded, her gaze leaving Anwen's to linger onto her son. "His real name is Alim. When I gave him up, I thought it for the best. I thought he had died on the road somewhere, all alone. But the gods had a purpose for him and they kept him alive to end the Blight, to make a difference in this world. I refuse to believe that purpose is over."

"Do you think he would have fulfilled that purpose, had you not… given him up?" Anwen asked, a flicker of curiousity in her strange violet eyes.

Siofra sighed deeply. She wasn't really sure how to answer that question. She had often thought, or had often come to the conclusion that she had done the right thing. After all, he had ended a Blight. But she realized that it was her way also of shirking from the guilt that hung around her. She should have been there for him. She should have raised him, cared for him, loved him. He should not have grown up alone in the world. "Would that there could be a world in which I could have had both my sons by my side without putting the world in danger as a result."

A faint smile overcame Anwen. "You have them both by your side now."

_For how long?_ "Until the next danger comes along, until adventure comes beckoning…" Siofra closed her eyes, exhaustion heavy in her lids. She had not slept since they had brought him here two days ago. _Until he wakes and decides that this is not home…_

"You should get some rest, lady." Anwen ventured quietly. "You should eat also. I would be honoured to watch over your son while you do…"

"You are kind to offer," Siofra said, "but I need to be here."

"I understand. I will sit with you if you wish…"

"You wouldn't rather sit with Ronan?" Siofra asked, noticing the slight blush creep upon Anwen's cheeks.

"I… I don't, I mean… he's gone off somewhere. Not that I wouldn't be here if he were here…" Anwen struggled to answer. Siofra smiled and then gestured for Anwen to take a seat, which she did swiftly. The girl was awfully sweet and obviously attracted to her son. She hoped Ronan would not do anything to hurt her, for it would be a shame for the clan to lose her.

"He's off brooding, no doubt." Siofra said. "He'll be back in no time at all, I am sure of it."

"You never worry for him? He seems to think that…" Anwen halted, closing her eyes in frustration. She probably hadn't meant to say that. Siofra was pained at the thought that Ronan would think she didn't care about him. It was almost too much to hear at the moment.

"It is a mother's duty to worry always for her children." Siofra said with a shrug. "Perhaps it doesn't seem so to him, but I probably worry about Ronan more than I do Tristan. He has changed much in the last few years. It is not easy for him to bear the loss of his hand. Nor was it easy for him to find out the truth about me…"

"What was he like before?" Anwen asked as she studied the floor boards to her side. The question almost seemed like an afterthought, like she was focused on something else.

"Is there something there more intriguing than my son?" Siofra asked.

Anwen reached over, grabbing something from the floor of the _aravel_. Much to Siofra's surprise, no blush had crept onto her face. Instead, Anwen held up a small leather pouch, blackened with soot. It dangled in the air, a mystery. "Something of Tristan's?" Anwen asked.

Siofra reached for it, Anwen letting it go into her hand. She wanted to open the pouch, to see what was inside, but she felt like she did not have that right. Why hadn't she noticed it before? She was pondering this, wondering what to do, when the cold winter air again reached inside the _aravel_. She put aside the pouch to find her husband and her son had entered the _aravel_.

Anwen scrambled up and excused herself with a whisper, muttering about it being too crowded now. She brushed past Ronan, who grinned and turned, about to follow her out, but was halted by the staying hand of his father.

"Ronan, give it to your mother." Silas commanded.

Ronan frowned, turned back inside the _aravel _and held out a small piece of the shrub. Siofra felt her eyes widen in disbelief. "Is that… _felandaris_?"

Ronan nodded as she took the piece from his hand, careful to avoid the thorns sticking out of the shoot. They had found it? They had gone out into danger to find it? She was grateful, yet she was surprised. That Silas, that Ronan would go out of their way to find something that _might_ help her Tristan… she hoped they sensed how grateful she was because she could not form the words at the moment. Handing over the _felandaris _to Silas, a thankful smile crept upon her face, but it did not stop Ronan from turning away.

"Ronan, stay for a minute," she said, reaching out for him. He stopped, though he seemed reluctant to stay, impatient to be away. "I know you are angry with me, and you have every right to be. I never meant to hurt anyone by keeping all of these secrets." She couldn't help but glance at Silas, who sat in the corner, quietly preparing the _felandaris_ antidote. He seemed to not be listening, but Siofra knew better than to think that. He heard everything, knew everything, and took pride in that, for it was his duty as Keeper. He'd known of Siofra's secret, had never said a word about it. She felt a stab of guilt that she did not love him the way he seemed to love her. He had never been her choice – he was her father's choice. Even so, he had given her Ronan – a ray of sunshine in the bleak years after she lost Rory, Alras, after she thought she lost Tristan forever. Now Ronan was anything but a ray of sunshine.

"Well guess what? You did hurt people." Ronan's voice intruded into her thoughts and she returned her gaze to him. He let out a sigh of frustration and then continued. "You know what? It doesn't matter anymore."

He crept toward the _aravel_'s exit again and she stayed him again, this time placing a hand on his shoulder. "_Da'mi_, please stay. I want to make this right. I _am_ sorry."

He hung his head low, his back still to her. "I forgive you. I am over it."

"Really?" she prodded.

"Really!" he replied, brushing her hand away and turning to stare at her, impatience in his eyes.

"I know how you are, keeping things inside of you." Siofra wrung her hands together in an effort to stop herself from reaching out to Ronan again. He clearly did not want to be touched and she did not want to anger him further. "You can talk to me."

"Well, I'm just like you then, aren't I?" he retorted, and then quickly continued, as if he were correcting what he just said. "With the keeping things inside…"

His words hurt her. He was so hard to comprehend at times. She was his mother, she should be able to know what was wrong. "You are not over it then…"

"I'm going."

"Wait!" this time she did reach for him, stilling him with a gentle hand. "There is a favour I would ask of you. You can refuse me if you like, but…"

"And there's a _but_." Ronan gazed upwards in annoyance before glancing questioningly towards his father in the corner, busy with the creation of the antidote, but surely listening to everything that was being said. "What is it?"

"You are the only one who knows where Brenna lives." Siofra paused, turning to glance at Tristan.

"Let me guess, you want me to fetch her?"

"Please, for his sake. He has done nothing to you. She has done nothing to you." 

Ronan stared at Tristan for the longest moment and Siofra stood in anticipation, unable to breathe while her son contemplated her favour.

"Fine. If it will take me far away from _here_." Ronan said before spinning around and leaving the _aravel_ so quickly it was almost as if he had never been there.

She closed her eyes in pain. She never meant to hurt Ronan. It was the last thing she ever wanted. She never should have kept everything from him. She should have told him the truth from the beginning. Then maybe, he wouldn't have resented Tristan so much, and maybe they could have… what? Been the best of friends? They were brothers, they shared her blood, but that didn't automatically guarantee a strong bond. She was foolish to think that. She just wished she could make Ronan understand that she did care for him, despite what he thought.

"It is ready." Silas said from his corner. "There is enough to make a tea, for a salve on his wound. If the gods are good, it will work."

She turned to him gratefully. "_Ma serannas_, Silas."


	8. Chapter 8

EIGHT

"Suddenly, there it was, amidst a beam of blue light. My sword dripped with the blood of the ruins' creatures, my arm was wounded, but still I carried on, through the pain. To save a Hero, one needs to be a hero."

Anwen didn't know what to say as Harshal backed her into the side of an _aravel_. She doubted the truth of Harshal's words, or rather it was probably an extremely embellished truth. She decided to play along, acknowledging his words with a nod and gesturing for him to continue. _It is the only thing I can do anyway. I'm cornered. _

"It was as if nobody else had seen the shrub. A surprise, since it is so ugly. Do you know what it looks like? It is long and thorny, without leaves, and looks exactly like a skeleton's hand." Harshal explained excitedly. He moved his arms around wildly as he recounted the story, nearly hitting Anwen a couple of times. "I went over to it and plucked it gently from the ground, unafraid of the malevolent thing."

Harshal paused his wild movements to trace a finger lightly along the bottom of her chin. Anwen tilted her head away from the touch. He grasped a lock of her hair instead. _Maker, why do men always treat me thus?_ It's not that she didn't like Harshal – he reminded her of Ty, actually – she just didn't like him in that way. He was always trying to impress her, telling her stories, embellished truths, and it all painfully reminded her of Ty. Ty, who was dead because of her.

A snort caused Harshal to turn his attention backwards. Anwen breathed a small sigh of relief and then took the opportunity to slip away from the _aravel's_ side to open air.

"I see Harshal feels the need to insert himself as the _hero_ of the day," the woman named Eirlys chuckled.

"This is a private conversation." Harshal snipped, his eyes narrowed in irritation at Eirlys as he noticed Anwen had removed herself from his grasp.

"But you're getting the story all wrong!" Eirlys crossed her arms over her chest and grinned at Anwen. "I'm sure Anwen would rather know the truth. Am I right?"

Four eyes lingered on her, eager for a response. Anwen looked at her feet, covered in snow, anxious for them to turn away. She hated being the center of attention. All she could manage was a faint shrug.

"I'll take that as an agreement." Eirlys said.

Harshal glared at her, his face puffed up in anger. "A shrug is not a sign of agreement."

"It is not a sign of disagreement either." Eirlys chuckled, and then continued, ignoring Harshal's daggered glare. "Harshal was much too pained from his _little_ wound to be useful. It was Merrion that sighted the _felandaris_."

"Why you…"

"Truth-speaker?" Eirlys arched a teasing brow in Harshal's direction.

"… sniveling little…" he glanced at Anwen before turning away, embarrassed at being found out. "We will continue this later."

"Ha, don't count on it." Eirlys said once Harshal had stomped away. "I've embarrassed the lad too much for him to come crawling back here and spin his tall tales again."

Anwen felt bad for Harshal… only a little. She removed her gaze from her feet, catching the other woman's grey eyes dancing with humour. "Thank you," she whispered her gratitude.

Eirlys tossed back her head and laughed. When she had calmed enough, she turned her attention back to Anwen. "You're much too polite. If someone is bothering you, tell them to bugger off!"

"I-I'm new here. I don't want to offend anyone. And I don't really mind Harshal… it's just…" Anwen was fed up of talking. She just wanted to go sit in her _aravel_. Or maybe find Ronan and hear about what happened from him.

"Too much?" Eirlys asked.

"Yes, I guess." Anwen agreed. She eagerly searched around for a way out of this. She was grateful for Eirlys' timely intervention with Harshal, but really, she just wanted to be on her way. Perhaps Ronan was already seeking her out…

"Or perhaps you are just afraid that your husband will find out about Harshal's attentions to you. He already seems to be very angry with the man." Eirlys continued, oblivious to, or maybe choosing to ignore Anwen's impatience. Either way, what she said stopped Anwen from scanning the area. Anwen focused her attention straight on to Eirlys.

"My husband?" she asked, confused.

"Ronan." Eirlys countered with a smirk on her face.

_Oh Maker, gods, Andraste, what is this woman up to? _Anwen became flustered, though she tried hard not to. _Why does everyone think that? Why do I care what people think of me and Ronan?_ She shook her head slightly, making sure not to overdo it. Too much denial would make Eirlys suspicious. _Ugh, who cares?_

"Hmm, I thought you were bonded with Ronan." Eirlys replied, still with that smirk on her face. Anwen couldn't decide what it meant, so she cracked a small smile of her own.

"Oh, no. Ronan and I are just friends." She immediately regretted saying that, though she wasn't quite sure why. The woman before her was a stunning Dalish woman – not overbearingly beautiful, but with a pleasant enough face mixed with her ebullient personality and charm, she could win many a heart over. Anwen just hoped Ronan's wouldn't count among those…

"So he has nothing holding him here…" Eirlys said so quietly and thoughtfully that Anwen wasn't sure if she heard right.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"There you are." Ronan's voice cut through Anwen's confusion. She jumped slightly in surprise as she felt his hand briefly touch her shoulder. She titled her head to him, noticing the slight anger in his eyes. "I have somewhere to go," he said when she made no greeting.

"Go?" she asked.

His eyes fell briefly on Eirlys before returning them to Anwen. "I am to seek out a woman for my mother. I will return."

"Out of the forest?" Eirlys spoke up, a thoughtful expression on her face. When Ronan nodded, she continued. _As if he came here to talk to her_, Anwen thought sourly.

"I am curious to see this land. May I accompany you?" Eirlys asked.

Ronan looked surprised. "You are curious to see this land?" His brow arched questioningly at Eirlys. "Why? Outside of the forest, Ferelden is not all that impressive."

"Ha, familiarity breeds contempt." Eirlys laughed. "Trust me, to strangers Ferelden is, and might I say its inhabitants are, quite the sight."

_Is she flirting with Ronan? _Anwen stood silently as Ronan chuckled, beaming a smile at Eirlys. She crossed her arms, suddenly very annoyed with the woman. There was no way she wasn't going on this excursion either.

"I'd like to go, too." Anwen piped in.

Ronan turned to her in equal surprise, and then with something of concern in his eyes. "It might be dangerous. We could run into Templars…"

"How are they going to know that I am a mage?" she interrupted with a frown. He had no objections to Eirlys tagging along, why only her?

"You're sure?" Ronan prodded.

"I was a bounty hunter for months. Do you really think that I am scared of a jaunt out of the forest?" Anwen turned red when she remembered Eirlys was there – watching her curiously. She shifted her gaze to the ground, brushing her hair out of her face even though she'd rather have hidden behind it.

"Fine," Ronan relented with a sigh, stepping ahead. "The more the merrier…"

…

Ronan was slightly upset that he had two women tagging along behind him. But truthfully, he was not expecting to find Brenna, and it would be good to have two witnesses to corroborate his story to his mother. He had a strange sense of foreboding, even a tiny prickle of fear running down his spine, the closer they came to Brenna's farmstead. Nothing about Tristan made sense to him. Who would send a poisoned arrow his way? Where was he off to? Who was he tracking? And what had been on fire?

The day was late, the winter sun hid low behind a slight haze of grey clouds, and the cold bit into his bones. He glanced back warily, making sure Anwen and Eirlys were keeping up with his hasty pace. He wanted this errand to be over as quickly as possible. To his surprise, they were right on his heels, matching his long strides over the deep snow. He'd attached snowshoes to his boots to quicken his pace. The women had borrowed theirs from others in the village and though Anwen looked unsure of herself on the wooden contraptions, Ronan had to admit, she had caught on fast.

"By the Dread Wolf, these shoes are more trouble than they are worth." Eirlys muttered as the left side came loose and nearly sent her tumbling.

Ronan chuckled. "Your clan does not use snowshoes?"

"Where I come from, the winters are not as despicable as this." Eirlys replied, pausing for a second to tighten the strap of the snowshoe on her boot. Anwen nearly barreled over onto her.

"And where is it that you come from?" Ronan asked, curiousity bubbling inside of him. He didn't know much about Eirlys. Her fighting skills had impressed him, yes, but he still wondered why she had come to his clan. And he wasn't so sure if she was telling him everything of Tristan. After all, why did she all of a sudden want to accompany him to Brenna's?

"I was raised by the borders of Orlais." Eirlys responded, catching up to Ronan and sending a bit of snow onto Anwen, who frowned. "But for years I have wandered from clan to clan."

"Why?" Ronan asked, holding still in order for Anwen to catch up.

Eirlys lifted her shoulders in an evasive shrug. "Not all purposes are as clear as the waters of a stream in the springtime."

Ronan lifted a brow, shook his head, and then turned around to continue forward. If the woman did not want to answer him, then so be it. He didn't have the patience at the moment. He surveyed the landscape ahead of them. They were close to Brenna's farmstead. It lay just over a slight ridge in the landscape. He ran a hand through his hair, a feeling of dread building within him. _Where is the chimney?_ The familiar sight was missing. Had he led them to the wrong place?

But no, this was the right place. He had followed the right path, the right turns. It was not along the main highway and not easy to find, but Ronan had been there before. He remembered the path in his mind. So where was the chimney? _And why is there no smoke curling up into the sky? Surely if Brenna is there, she'd have a fire going…_

"Is something wrong?" Anwen asked quietly as she drew up next to him.

"I don't know." Ronan answered. Something _was_ wrong, else he wouldn't be so anxious, his heart would not be pounding furiously. He gripped the hilt of his sword. "Let's continue, slowly."

Probably sensing his discomfort, Eirlys withdrew her sword and nodded. Ronan gestured them forward. The snowshoes cracked and the snow crunched under their weight, the only other sound being the breath escaping their lungs. As the distance between them and the ridge shortened, Ronan realized they were in the right place – only there was nothing but a single wall standing amidst a pile of burnt out rubbish and a blackened willow tree.

"The fire." Eirlys said. "Are you sure this is where the woman lives?"

"Wait here." Ronan instructed, moving forward alone, wanting to find out if there was anything left that might help him understand what had happened there. To his chagrin, Anwen did not listen and she trailed behind him. He was too intent on his target to argue, so he let her follow.

The closer they got to the house, or what remained of it, the less the snow covered the ground. Encumbered now, he shoved his snowshoes off in a hurry, with Anwen emulating his every move. The smell of burnt permeated the surroundings, ashes fluttered in the calm breeze. An eerie silence encased the ruins.

"Something bad has happened here." Ronan muttered. He called out Brenna's name a couple of times as he stepped carefully into what had been a cozy farmstead not so long ago. He didn't know why he did so; she obviously wasn't there. Feeling like he had woken the dead by walking through the burnt house, he left it to return to Anwen who had stayed on the ash covered ground.

"Do you think… is she…?" Anwen asked.

Ronan let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as he walked through the ruins of the house. "Was she lost in this fire?" Ronan shrugged. "I don't know. Brenna was a good person. She was elf-blooded, like Tristan… Eirlys said she saw a great plume of smoke as she travelled towards the forest. She said also that my brother was covered in soot… if he did this…"

Anwen reached out tentatively, brushing a hand against his arm. Ronan would have enjoyed the sensation, if it weren't for what she said next. "He didn't do this. Why would he?"

Ronan moved away from her touch. _Not her_, Ronan thought._ Why would even she defend him?_ He kicked at the ground in frustration, throwing up a flurry of ash into the air. "Why would he run, if he were not guilty?"

"We don't know the whole story, Ronan." Anwen said. "When I sat by your brother, he dreamed in his sleep. He cried out in pain."

"A guilty heart cries out!" Ronan snapped. He knew in his heart that what Anwen said was true – they did not know the whole story – but it irked him that even Anwen, _Anwen_, who had never even known Tristan except in his current comatose state, chose to defend him. The fire at Brenna's house, the soot on Tristan's face, the tracks in the ground, they were all a mystery. They all meant nothing good, but Ronan could not put them all together without thinking that Tristan was the cause of it all.

"Do not condemn your brother before you know what has happened." Anwen said, her violet eyes pleading. "Brenna may be alive, searching for him."

"She would have come to the clan." Ronan replied. _Would she? That would not be the first place to look for Tristan, and she would know that._

"When he wakes, we will know the truth." Anwen said, biting her lip and gazing past him in the distance.

"If he ever wakes." Ronan said, turning around to see what Anwen was looking at. Eirlys was slowly making her way toward them.

"Have faith, Ronan." Anwen whispered just as Eirlys joined them, searching their faces for any news.

"Let's return home. There is obviously nothing or nobody here." Ronan said angrily.

"Has the fire claimed a victim?" Eirlys asked, her eyes scanning over the ruins. "The woman you are looking for…"

"Either she's dead or she's not." Ronan said, impatient to be away from there. He thought he saw a black cat run across the ruins and felt a brief prickle of fear run down the back of his neck. He shook the feeling away, he was being foolish. "There is nothing but ashes left."

Eirlys fingered her chin thoughtfully, switching her attention from the ruins to the sky. She closed her eyes, taking a deep inhalation of breath before her eyes flashed open again, the grey of them mirroring the colour of the sky. "There is much pain here. Pain and death. Can't you smell it, feel it in the air?"

Ronan looked to her in surprise. "You can feel it?"

Eirlys nodded. "Yet, I cannot be certain of whose death or of how much time has passed."

"Then you don't know if it is Brenna?" Ronan asked. He didn't know if he should take Eirlys at her word, but he sensed a change in her, as if she had somehow reached into the Beyond for the truth. Was she a mage? _How did she do that?_

Eirlys shrugged. "There is no way to be certain."

"Then we should hope for the best." Anwen piped in quietly.

"A prayer for the dead would do much to calm the atmosphere on these grounds." Eirlys suggested.

"But you aren't certain anyone is dead." Anwen said.

"No, Eirlys is right. A prayer to the gods would do much to cleanse the ground. Whatever spirits linger here would enter to the Beyond, where they belong. If we don't do this, other spirits could pass through to our world." Ronan explained to Anwen.

"_Setheneran_…" Eirlys said. _The land of waking dreams_, Ronan thought to himself. Eirlys turned to Anwen with concern. "_Shem'lens_ would say the Veil is thin here."

"Then do it quickly." Anwen agreed. "I don't want to be a target for evil spirits."

Eirlys nodded, crouched to the ground and gathered a handful of ashes from the ground. "I will start." She opened her palm, allowing the wind to pick up and carry the ashes away slowly. "Elgar'nan, All-Father, born of the sun and earth, seek not vengeance on these lost souls, for their wandering is not of their doing. Instead, we beseech your aid in guiding them towards the peaceful Beyond.

"Mythal, Protector of all, mother of all, we ask for your aid in bringing justice to those responsible for these lost souls. May you also direct the lost to the serenity of the Beyond, lighting up the dark with your light as beacon.

"Dirthamen, may you rein in the ravens, Fear and Deceit, so the lost may walk a clear path. And may they shed the secrets of their lives, so that their burdens will lay less heavy on their shoulders, their steps less tormented.

"To the lost souls wandering this plane still, let go of your life, it is over. Resist the temptation of Fen'Harel, for he is a betrayer and will bring you only grief. Travel to the Beyond, for it is where you belong. Falon'Din will bring you through, be not afraid. You will see, it is a place of peace, rest, and happiness and something to be yearned for, even more than those left behind."

Eirlys paused, sucked in a deep breath, and then continued. "_Na melana sahlin, emma ir abelas, souver'inan isala hamin, vhenan him dor'felas, in uthenera na revas_." _Your time is come, now I am filled with sorrow, weary eyes need resting, heart has become grey and slow, in waking sleep is freedom_.

_In Uthenera_, Ronan thought, before picking up the prayer, a song usually, where Eirlys had paused. "_Vir sulahn'nehn, vir dirthera, vir samahl la numin, vir lath sa'vunin_." _We sing, rejoice, we tell the tales, we laugh and cry, we love one more day_.

"Falon'Din, please guide the restless spirits to rest." Eirlys turned to Ronan and nodded. The feeling in the air had changed. He was amazed that it was no longer so gloomy.

"Let us return to the village before the darkness comes," he said as he bent to pick up his hastily shaken off snowshoes. As he clumsily attached them to his boots, he was no longer impatient to be away from there. He did not relish the thought of delivering this news to his mother.


	9. Chapter 9

_Ah, the joys of winter! Here I am editing, uploading this chapter and I look out my window to see an eighteen wheeler stuck in my ditch. WTF? lol. Anyway, thanks for reading. Don't be shy! -artemiskat_

* * *

><p>NINE<p>

_He could hear her again. Her voice came strong and clear through the incessant buzzing, through the far away voices of the others. He opened his eyes to see he lay beside her again. She watched him through her long lashes, her amazing green eyes. She seemed to want to say something._

"_You know I love to hear your voice…" he encouraged._

"_The way you stood there, staring out the window. It frightened me."_

"_What? Why would that frighten you?" he asked._

"_You change your mind so much, you remind me of a squirrel who can't decide if he should bury his nuts under this tree or under that one."_

"_A squirrel? Really? What are you getting at?" He was utterly confused now. "Unlike the squirrel, I remember where I put things."_

"_That's not my point." Brenna sat up, clearly troubled. "Staring out that window, you looked as if you longed to be free, to be away from here."_

"_That's not true. You needn't worry." He sat up too, eager to reassure her that he would be there for her._

"_How long will you love me?" she asked._

"_What is this?"_

"_It's a feeling. You've been known to change your mind."_

"_Like a squirrel?" he arched a questioning brow in her direction. She frowned and he knew she needed for him to be serious. He let out his breath slowly. He didn't know why or what kind of feeling she had, but she did have a point. He did have a tendency to change his mind, in many matters. He reached for her hand and enfolded it into his own. "Not in this, Brenna. I love you and I always will."_

"_That doesn't mean you will stay. Or that we will be together."_

_He brought the palm of her hand to his lips. "You ask how long I will love you? My love for you is undying. When we're full of wrinkles and our hair is as white as that snow outside we'll still love each other, we'll still be together."_

"_What if things happen? What if you have to leave?"_

"_No crossroads will separate our paths. Nothing will."_

_He knew what she was thinking of as she looked upon him with tears welling in her eyes. He had just lied to her. They both knew that he would have to leave. The Grey Wardens would come for him or his Calling would come. But it was easier to pretend that they were normal. He took her into his arms and planted a kiss on the top of her head._

"_When our children are grown and we kick them out of the nest, I'll love you still."_

"_Children… how many are we planning to have?"_

"_One every year if I have my way," he chuckled._

"_You won't have your way in that, sorry. I'll not be a typical farmer's wife."_

_He squeezed her tightly. "I like you the way you are anyway – a feisty merchant."_

"_So, how long will you love me?"_

"_At the end of the road, beyond death, I will never stop loving you."_

"_And I will do the same." Her voice began to fade again. He grasped onto her, unwilling to let her go. He couldn't leave her again. But someone was calling him… breaking his train of thought._

_He had a sudden feeling of drowning… and then nothing at all, nothing but the incessant buzzing in his head. _

_When did his memories become a nightmare?_

…

Her left eye twitched rapidly. Both lids were heavy. Her mind called out for rest, but Siofra would not give in, not until she knew Tristan would be all right.

She had applied the balm Silas had made from the _felandaris_ to the arrow wound, praying it would suck out the poison, hoping it would prove as potent an antidote as it was a poison. She had gently forced small sips of the tea down his throat. Now, all she could do was wait and hope the gods would decide not to take him after all.

She was alone with him, Silas having gone off to get some sleep in another _aravel_. Ronan had yet to return with Brenna. She had a moment's guilt for not having thought of fetching Brenna sooner. _I should have done it at once_. Brenna's presence might make a difference.

Sighing, she rubbed at her eyes, willing the tiredness away. There was no time for sleep, no time for rest while her son was fighting for his life. Of course, the simple gesture didn't work. She still felt like sleeping. All she did was stare at her son, at the darkness around them. She needed a tiny distraction.

Siofra fingered the small leather pouch that Anwen had found earlier and which rested just in front of her. She shouldn't open it – she had no right. It wasn't hers and she doubted Tristan would want her snooping through his things. But, it didn't actually look like something a man would carry around.

_I'll just peek…_ She untied the drawstring and pulled the pouch open. It was very difficult to see in the dim light of the _aravel_. She turned the pouch over and emptied the contents before her. A tattered piece of folded vellum fell out, along with a necklace of faded beads. Siofra picked up the vellum and unfolded it.

_I've seen this before_, she thought. Holding it up to the sparse light of the lantern, she finally recognized it. It was the letter Brenna had read many times over during her brief stay with the clan. It was from Tristan.

Siofra studied the handwriting – neat at the start and getting a little careless as the letter went on. She didn't know how to read and so the markings were foreign to her. _He must have learned this at the Circle_, she thought, glancing at Tristan. There was so much she didn't know about him. There was so much she should know about him. _In any case, he'll be glad to know I cannot understand the letter at all._

Placing the letter down, she wondered what he was doing with Brenna's pouch – for that's whom she assumed it belonged to. For why would he carry his own letter to her and a necklace in a woman's pouch?

She grabbed the necklace to get a closer look. Somewhere in her mind this necklace was familiar. She knew it to be Dalish, but she hadn't seen its kind in many, many years. _Neria used to make these and Alras use to trade these to the humans… Neria and Alras!_

Siofra's eyes watered up at the thought of her older sister and her brother in law, _that sweet lazy man_. He'd been so kind to her, helping her out of her problems and he'd paid with his life. Neria had never forgiven her, and truthfully, she'd never forgiven herself either.

_Oh Neria, Alras, I miss you both so much… _She hugged the necklace to her chest, hoping to feel some of their essence within it, but she could not.

_How did Brenna get this? It is so old, faded, and cracked, who would even want to keep it so close to something as important as the letter… unless it has sentimental value._

Siofra would ask Tristan of it when he woke. She would have to admit to looking through his things, but that was a small price to pay for answers. She needed to know why the necklace was there. Gently, she placed the two things back into the pouch.

_He will awaken_, she reassured herself. If Brenna arrived before that happened, she would ask her about the necklace.

She sat in the darkness after that, extinguishing the small flame in the lantern. She covered Tristan in extra furs, with herself only wrapped in one. If she was too warm, she was afraid she would succumb to slumber. The cold would keep her awake in the meantime.

After a while, the silence of the night was invaded by the sounds of boots crunching upon the cold, hard ground. She turned to the hide door of the _aravel_ and caught the flicker of torchlight in the night.

_Ronan has returned_, she thought, _with Brenna_. She unseated herself immediately, emerging into the fresh air of the cold night. She focused on the torchlight. Indeed, it was Ronan, but Brenna was nowhere to be seen. Only Anwen stood by his side.

"Where is Brenna?" she asked.

Ronan took a deep breath and handed over the torch to Anwen. He came to her with a solemn look on his face. "_Mamae…_" She stepped backwards unconsciously, knowing it was nothing good coming toward her. "There is nothing left of Brenna's house. It has burned to the ground. As for Brenna herself," he paused, lifted his shoulder slightly, "I don't know where she is, nor even if she is alive. I think, mother, you should face the fact that this might be Tristan's doing."

Siofra gasped, covering her mouth in surprise, in denial. "What are you saying Ronan? That he killed Brenna?"

"I am just stating the facts. The house was set on fire. Tristan was covered in soot. He was obviously running somewhere…"

"Tristan would not do that!" Siofra interrupted. She could not believe that he would do that to Brenna.

Ronan sighed. "Do you even really know him?"

Siofra sucked in her breath. She had just thought that herself moments ago. "I admit, I don't know him as much as I should… but he would never do what you are suggesting. Brenna must be alive somewhere. She is searching for him. You said he was running somewhere… perhaps he was chasing off bandits. It was bandits that set her house on fire. He is the _victim_ here."

"Whatever." Ronan shrugged, sharing a look with Anwen.

Siofra did not like what she was hearing. She couldn't believe Ronan would believe Tristan capable of such a horrid thing. Ronan was pulling a story out of thin air. Just because Brenna was not at her burnt house it didn't mean she was _dead_. Just because certain facts looked suspicious, they didn't make Tristan a murderer. They would all know the truth when Tristan woke up. She fell forward suddenly, unable to stand up. She felt Ronan steady her.

"_Mamae_, you are going to rest, whether you want to or not," he said.

Siofra shook her head. "I cannot leave him."

"I will sit by Tristan." Anwen offered.

"That is sweet of you, Anwen, but I do not wish to disturb Silas or anyone else."

"Go to my _aravel_ and rest." Anwen said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Perhaps they were right, she needed to rest. She had done all she could for Tristan. It was just a waiting game now, a torturous waiting game. At least, sleep might abate the long wait.

"Fine." Siofra said, standing up straight and brushing off Ronan. "I will rest."

…

With his mother finally agreeing to rest, it was time for his own. He headed for the fire in the center of the village. Ronan nearly turned around when he realized Eirlys had settled in there. He usually slept by the fire, it being warmer there than in an _aravel_, and he was usually alone. He wished only to sleep now and he doubted he'd get any sleep with her there. He flung himself onto the ground anyway, leaning back against a log.

"Why aren't you by your brother's side? Why leave Anwen to it?" Eirlys asked.

"Anwen volunteered." Ronan answered, stretching his legs towards the fire. He felt a little bad that he'd left Anwen to watch over Tristan all by herself, but she _had_ volunteered. _He_ certainly wasn't going to sit and watch over his comatose brother. He'd rather sleep.

"And why aren't you with her?" Eirlys prodded.

Ronan stared at Eirlys, eyes narrowed to show his displeasure with her questioning. Eirlys stared back defiantly, her chin lifted. Well, Ronan wasn't going to let Eirlys break him. She could stare all she wanted, he would not look away and he would not answer her question. They continued the stare down for what seemed like minutes, but really only amounted to seconds before Eirlys turned away with a chuckle.

"Why are you here?" Ronan asked as Eirlys settled back against a log. He'd won the staring contest, but that didn't make him feel any better. The whole thing with Brenna's farmstead was eating at him. _She can't be dead… Anwen is right, mother is right, perhaps she is just away…_

"I have a message for the clan." Eirlys replied.

"You're taking your sweet time delivering it then." Ronan muttered.

"There has been much distraction around here lately. When the time is right, everyone shall know my purpose."

"It is not so important then." Ronan crossed his arms, impatient for the night to just be over, for Eirlys to go away or fall asleep.

"Oh, but it is. You will see."

"When?"

Eirlys smiled, shaking her head coyly. Ronan sighed in frustration. He was beginning to doubt she had any purpose at all – except perhaps to bother him.

"Does the whole mysterious wanderer routine work for you?" he asked.

"You tell me."

"If I knew what you were after I would."

Eirlys laughed, loudly. Ronan winced a little.

"You'll wake the whole village if you keep that up."

Eirlys calmed down, wiping a tear from her eye. She reached over into her pack and pulled out a small leather pouch and a medium sized wooden bowl. "The night is long, and given what you've been through today, would you care for a distraction?"

"What I've been through?" Ronan asked in disbelief. "What do you take me for? A weepy runt?"

Eirlys chuckled. "Of course not. I just thought you might need a distraction. It has been a long day. Fighting off skeletons, shrieks, and then cleansing tainted land. It's more than some people do in a year. So, would you care for one?"

She did have a point, but he meant what he said, he was not a weepy runt. "I'd care to sleep, but…" Ronan looked at the bowl curiously. If it was what he thought it was, it had been a while. "Go on."

Eirlys emptied the contents of the pouch into the bowl and sidled closer to Ronan. Peering into the bowl, he saw five pebbles, shaped like peach pits, and each painted black on one side and white on the other.

"_Bora'durgen'en_ – the bowl game!" Ronan said, excitement building inside despite his earlier wish to just sleep. "I haven't played that in ages."

"Then let's play."

"For fun?" Ronan arched an inquisitive brow in Eirlys' direction. "Or are there stakes?"

Eirlys grinned. "Winner gets to ask anything of the loser."

"I was champion of this for many years. Nobody could ever beat me. Are you sure you want to try me?"

"You said you haven't played in ages and I have beaten every so called champion from here to the Free Marches. I'd say the odds are quite even."

"Well, the only reason you would beat me is because I play with only one hand." He held up his stump to emphasize his point. He was sure though, that he could still win with only one hand. "And I am rusty. The Blight does that to fun."

"Then I also will play with one hand only, to even the odds further."

"Oh no." Ronan said. She seemed to think he wouldn't be able to beat her with his handicap. Well, he'd prove her wrong. "You use both hands."

"Fine." Eirlys extended her hand. "The terms are this: first one to ten wins is declared the winner and gets to ask anything of the loser. So it is agreed?"

"It is." Ronan accepted the challenge with a shake.

"Shall I begin?"

"By all means, ladies first." Ronan nodded.

Eirlys flicked her long braid to the back and then put on quite a display of preparation. She rolled her shoulders, craned her neck back and forth to the side, stretched her arms, and cracked her knuckles, cutting through the relative silence of the village. With a wink, she gripped the edges of the wooden bowl, lifted it slightly so it hovered in the air, and then slammed it down to the ground with a vengeance. The pebbles were briefly airborne before rolling into place inside the bowl. Ronan leaned over to look at the result.

"Four black, one white." He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "No win for you."

"I'm only warming up." Eirlys retorted playfully as she handed the bowl to Ronan.

"Gods guide my hand to victory," he said, accepting the bowl. He wasted no time slamming the bowl onto the ground. The bowl tilted awkwardly at the last second before it hit the ground. For a moment, Ronan watched in horror as the pebbles flew high into the air, looking as if they would not land in the bowl, but onto the ground, thereby ending the game before it really had started. But they landed in the bowl and Ronan frowned. _Worse than her results_.

"Ah…" Eirlys taunted. "Two whites and three blacks. This might be a longer night than I expected. Perhaps we should change the terms to five wins?"

Ronan shook his head. "Don't worry. I'm just getting started. Ten wins it stays." He handed the bowl back to her.

They went a few turns with neither of them getting five of a kind, which they needed for a win. When Eirlys was the first to do so, she shouted loudly in celebration and Ronan couldn't help but laugh, wondering if their noise would wake the whole village. Wondering if one of the _hahren_ would stumble out with a sharp curse or two in their direction. The prospect of something like that happening sent his laughter out of control. It had been a long time since he'd done something to cause _that_. But no one stirred from their _aravels_ and the game continued for some time.

Ronan got the next five of a kind, with Eirlys quickly taking the lead again. He had to admit, she wasn't exaggerating when she said she had defeated many so called champions. However, he teased her quite a bit by pointing out that it was mostly a game of chance and not skill.

"You're just sour because I am winning," she replied breathlessly.

Eventually, the score was nine wins apiece. Ronan tried a new strategy, tapping the bowl gently onto the ground. It didn't work.

"Oh dear, you just don't know how to run that trick." Eirlys teased as she grabbed the bowl from him. "Watch the expert."

"Expert?" Ronan smirked, crossing his arms. "It's all luck."

Eirlys brought the bowl gently onto the ground, the pebbles turning over – to five of a kind. _A whiteout_. "I told you I was the champion of _bora'durgen'en_!" Eirlys gloated, her face right up in his.

"Bah, you were lucky." Ronan muttered with a frown creasing the features of his face. _Beaten by a woman…_ Even though he was unhappy about losing, Eirlys had an infectious smile, one that caused him to grin in no time, despite his loss. "Might as well get this over with then. What would you ask of me?"

Eirlys put a finger to her chin, gazing thoughtfully at Ronan. "I will think on it and get back to you. In the meantime…" Her hand left her chin to fall onto his shoulder and she pulled herself into his lap, knocking over the bowl and spilling the painted pebbles onto the ground.

"In the meantime…" Ronan repeated, his voice low, his pulse racing as Eirlys pressed her body against his. "… you are going to seduce me?"

"We are going to celebrate my victory." Her whisper landed on his neck, sending a shudder of pleasure through him. She ran a hand through his hair, the other rested teasingly on his thigh. Before Ronan could react, her lips were over his own, her tongue parting them deliciously, and all thoughts of losing the game, and perhaps foolishly, all mistrust of the woman, had departed.


	10. Chapter 10

TEN

The fire flickered slowly, emanating a haze of warmth he could see, but he could not feel. He was cold, so very cold. He reached forward, stretched out his palms to the flames, and still the warmth did not come to him. The flames swayed back and forth as if they were dancing, and his bleary eyes followed the movement, hypnotizing him. Time passed and the fire burned itself out. The trance was ended, yet he remained cold.

Tristan backed away, his hands scraping along the floor, along a trail of blood. He held his hands up, covered in blood. Confused, he stood up and ran, away from the fire, away from the blood. He ran and ran, through darkness, through shadows, until he ran right into a door. He put his palms to the cold, splintery wood, and pushed, but it was not enough. He threw all his weight onto it and it opened easily while he barreled through, falling to the ground. Tristan looked up and saw Brenna seated on a chair, reading a book, the cat curled up comfortably in her lap.

Tristan turned his hands over – the blood was gone, as if it had never been there. He felt different from before. He felt like he had travelled from a memory to… the Fade? No, it couldn't be the Fade, everything was clear, there was a roof over his head, and everything remained rooted to the ground. He gathered himself from the floor and stood up warily.

"Brenna?" he called out cautiously.

She put her book down and turned her gaze toward him. "Did you get the firewood? It's getting cold in here and the fire is dying down."

He stared at her in confusion. There was something familiar in her words, like she had said the exact same thing before. Her mouth creased into a frown when he failed to answer her.

"Well, did you get the firewood?" she asked again.

He had, hadn't he? He remembered gathering it, splitting apart a few pieces with an axe. He remembered the chill in the air, feeling in his bones that a snowfall was coming. But he didn't have the firewood this time. "N-no," he stammered out. What was going on?

Brenna picked up the cat, cradling it in the crook of her arm. It purred loudly and continued to sleep as she advanced toward him. Tristan stepped back, his back hitting the door, closed now. Brenna continued forward and then stopped.

"There it is," she said. "Why did you lie? Are you trying to anger me?"

Tristan followed her gaze to the side of the door – the firewood lay there, where he remembered stacking it what seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Still, it's not enough." Brenna said, shaking her head and stroking the cat's back. "Not enough to last the night. And don't tell me you'll use your magic. I'll not have you burn the house down."

Tristan felt a stab of pain in his heart. "I would never do that." The words came out of his mouth without warning. It wasn't what he wanted to say, but it was what he had said that night. His heart began to race as he realized he was reliving that night. He dreaded what was coming. He had to stop it. He couldn't go through it again.

Brenna bent down to grab a piece of firewood in her free hand and stood back up, smiling. She walked over to the fire and tossed the wood in. Tristan didn't want to move, but his legs shot forward, joining Brenna at the fire. He picked up the poker and tossed the embers around, building the fire back up. Crackling, glowing, it warmed the house. He still felt cold.

_Thud, thud, thud_. Three knocks on the door. The simplest, commonest sound, but Tristan would never hear it like that again. His heart began to pound within his chest. Three more thuds pounded in rhythm. The cat jumped out of Brenna's arm and she turned to the door.

"Who can that be?" she wondered aloud.

He hadn't wanted to open it before, and he certainly didn't want to now. "Ignore it." He pulled her into the chair, like he had that night. He held her in his arms, nuzzled her neck, her hair soft to touch, and smelling of lavender. That night, he'd been annoyed that someone would interrupt them. Now, now he wanted to hold her and never let her go. He tried to tell her not to get the door, he tried to warn her, but nothing came out of his mouth. She left his arms and went to the door.

He was screaming inside. He tried to get up. He tried to a cast a spell. He tried to stop it. He didn't want to see this again. He didn't want to feel the pain again. But Tristan could do nothing but what he already had done, what had already come to pass. What kind of nightmare was this, that he couldn't change anything, that he couldn't just wake up?

"I'll get it," he heard himself say. He jumped out of the chair and brushed by Brenna to the door. "You go sit down." He wished he could have told her to get away, to leave the house. He wished he could stop his hand from unlatching the lock on the door, from opening it. He was trapped in this cage of a body, a puppeteer without control, unable to pull the strings.

The door opened with a piercing creak. The cold air whooshed in. Before him huddled two strangers – deceivers, slayers of all rites of hospitality. He knew now what they were, but then, he did not. Tristan thought them only a nuisance to be borne for a night. He struggled to gain control over his body, to change what happened before they even opened their mouths.

"Greetings friend." It was too late, the man had already spoken. His ruddy hair was windswept, his face, his blue eyes a mask. His smile bespoke of kindness. His clothes were weathered - a threadbare mantle, faded shirt and trousers. All a lie. "I am Arn. This is my wife, Perdita."

Tristan turned his gaze to the woman. He shuddered inside as he looked her over. She was huge of belly under her worn out cloak. Another lie. She smiled ruefully at him as she shivered in the cold, holding her stomach, intent on inspiring pity. Her long black hair hung tousled over her shoulders, her eyes black as night, and her tanned skin marked her as foreign. _Turn them away_, he thought but couldn't say.

"Come in," Brenna said from behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him back, allowing space for Arn and Perdita, probably not even their real names, to enter.

"Thank you." Arn said, shuffling in with his _wife_. He carried a bow and quiver of arrows on his back. Tristan remembered being suspicious of that. He'd not said anything, giving the man the benefit of the doubt. After all, the roads could be rough with bandits sometimes. "We are on our way to Redcliffe. We thought to camp outside, but when the darkness came, we found we couldn't see anything, but for the light of this house. I hope you do not mind, but it is too cold to go on and it feels like snow is coming. To add to it all, Perdita is heavy with child."

"You are welcome here." Brenna said, gathering Perdita and leading her to a chair, sitting her down gently. "I am Brenna."

"And your husband?" Arn asked with a tilt of his head in Tristan's direction. Brenna laughed and Tristan cringed inside. He remembered getting angry. Now he was just sad.

Tristan felt himself nod in agreement to the question. "My name is Rory." He hadn't trusted the visitors. The man Arn had explained much when not even asked. It was too rehearsed. And so he had lied about his identity. It hadn't mattered in the end anyway.

"Well, _Rory_, dear, it seems that we will need more firewood." Brenna said, using his fake name in a teasing manner. "Would you be so kind as to retrieve some?"

_No, no, no!_ He shouted inside. He tried to stop himself from turning around and reaching for the door. It didn't work. "Yes, _dear_," he said.

Arn's footsteps echoed behind him. The man followed him out into the cold. Tristan knew what was coming, yet he could not stop it. He walked to the pile of wood. Something felt wrong, he knew it then and he knew it all over again. He felt it in his spine, a sort of primal instinct. He picked up a log, turned it around in his hand and then shifted to the left. Arn's dagger wobbled in the wood Tristan had just been standing in front of.

There had been no time to think of anything, except to react. Now, as Tristan dodged another swipe from another dagger, he thought of Brenna. He wondered if she was surprised by the betrayal of their guests. Was she confused? Tristan felt a burst of energy pour out of him, knocking Arn to the ground.

"Who are you, really?" he asked.

"Your worst nightmare." Arn replied as he scrambled up from the ground.

"How original." Tristan scoffed. That was when the yelling started from inside the house. He sucked in his breath in worry, hastily throwing a freeze spell toward Arn. As Arn was encased in ice, Tristan rushed back to the house, forgetting to shatter the man to pieces.

_I don't want to see this again. Wake up, please, wake up…_

He threw open the door. Brenna was locked in battle with Perdita. Perdita had Brenna by the hair, her other hand wrestling with Brenna's hand, a dagger within it. It all happened so fast. Brenna twisted her hand free and plunged the dagger into Perdita's belly. Perdita laughed as the dagger clung loosely, as no blood poured forth. It was a fake belly.

Tristan felt his palms waver in the air, a ball of fire hovering, waiting for a clear shot. He should have loosed it then and there, but he didn't want to hit Brenna. He should have run forward, barreled them over. He should have cast a knockback spell. He should have found his sword and thrown it at Perdita. He should have, he could have done a number of things. Instead, he watched as Perdita grabbed the dagger from her belly, brought it up in the air, and then down across Brenna's neck.

Time slowed, everything around Brenna blurred as he watched her put her hand on her throat, as she fell to the floor. Their eyes met for one split second, not nearly enough time to convey everything she meant to him, to apologize to her. The blood sputtered out of her, draining away her life with every drop, taking away with it a part of himself. What was done could not be undone, only repeated forever in ghastly memory.

Time sped forward again. Tristan lost it then. He hurled the fireball at Perdita, but the woman dodged it, rolling away. The fireball hit the wall and did not go out. Instead, the flames grew, and grew. He went to Brenna, slumped on the floor. He crouched down, gathered her in his arms, cradling her head. Her blood ran onto his hands. Her eyes stared up at him, always so vivid, now lifeless. His body shook in anger.

"Brenna." He hugged her to him. He refused to believe what happened. He expected her to reach up and touch him. But she didn't. Of course she didn't. He failed her. He was supposed to protect her. He was supposed to watch over her. He hadn't done that. He felt the lump in his throat grow, choking him. He heard the flames growing around him. He'd felt their searing heat the first time. Now, he was cold.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of Perdita, slinking toward the open door. They would pay for this, he vowed. He lowered his mouth to Brenna's for one final kiss. Then he closed her eyes with his palms, her blood on his hand spreading over her face. He cried out in pain at the sight, and then let her go, gently placing her back on the floor.

The flames were spreading quickly in the old house full of junk. He hastily snatched a blanket from a chair and placed it over Brenna. He would leave her body to burn, to turn to ash with her house, so nothing would possess it. The roof was on fire now and a beam collapsed on the other side of the room. Nostrils flaring in anger, sucking in the smoke to sear his lungs all over again, he stood up and searched for his sword, the need for vengeance coursing through his blood. He saw it lying on the table, next to Brenna's small pouch, and took both of them.

_Enough! This is too much. Maker let this end. You have tortured me enough already._ But the living memory went on. He trudged to the doorway, soot blowing into his face. He stopped at the threshold, took one last look. His knees gave out and he would have fallen had he not caught hold of the door frame.

"May your body be a feast for wolves, Warden-Commander."

Tristan tore his gaze away from the inferno that was circling Brenna, turning around to meet Arn, a few feet away from him, Perdita by his side. His bow was nocked with arrow and trained on Tristan.

"You _will_ pay for this." Tristan said as Arn released his arrow. It whizzed through the air and in the blink of an eye was in Tristan's shoulder. He remembered not feeling any physical pain as he fell back. Worse was the guilt he felt as he realized they had come for him and Brenna had only been in the way. If he had accepted the dagger's blow, if he had let Arn kill him, would she have been spared?

The miscreants fled, sure now that they had killed him. The arrow had not been enough, but they knew the poison would be.

Tristan struggled up. He couldn't let them get away. He staggered forward, struggling to breathe. Inside, all he could think of was that he should have stayed in the fire with Brenna. Because he was cold, so very cold.

…

Anwen stared at her palm as it grew hot. A tiny flame emerged from her index finger. Letting go her breath, she smiled. She'd done it, mastered a flame, even if it was so tiny. She didn't need anything large anyway. She transferred the flame to the lantern and then set the lantern to her side.

The darkness was overwhelming her. She might have fallen asleep had not the distant laughter reached her, jerking her head back up. It had been rolling forward. She had promised Siofra to watch over Tristan, and if she had fallen asleep, well that would have been not only embarrassing, but disappointing.

Anwen wondered who was making such a racket at such a late hour. Rubbing her eyes, she forgot about it. Whoever it was, she was grateful to them for keeping her from falling asleep. She turned her attention to Tristan. His breathing had turned ragged and his fists were curled, as if he were agitated.

_They were not like that when I came in_. She cursed herself for not noticing sooner. If he moved his hands, then that was a good sign, wasn't it? She considered whether or not to get up and run to Siofra. On the one hand, perhaps she was so tired that she was imagining things and she would disturb Siofra for nothing. On the other hand, if this was a sign of an imminent awakening, and she didn't immediately tell Siofra, then she'd feel equally foolish, with the added guilt of having been the cause of Siofra not being there for his awakening.

Anwen had no time to further contemplate her minor dilemma, for it grew into something more as Tristan began shaking and thrashing about. He moaned in what Anwen assumed to be pain.

"Oh Maker, gods, what do I do?" she whispered. She moved to his side and attempted to still him with her hand. But his arm flinched away at the touch.

Tristan continued to shake. Anwen watched as his fists glowed orange. She covered them with her own hands, regretting it when she found them burning.

_He's going to set the place on fire…_ Realizing this, she held onto his fists, fighting through the intense pain. She straddled him in order to keep his fists at his side, but he pushed back. He was so strong for someone bedridden. What was driving this madness?

Anwen pushed back, closing her eyes, gathering her mana, sending cold to her palms, hoping to stop Tristan from killing them both. Unexpectedly, she felt Tristan grow weak, and the heat stopped. With a sigh of relief, she opened her eyes and found herself eye to eye with Tristan.

Anwen gasped in surprise. Remembering that she was not only straddling the now weak man, but covering his fists with her hands, she became flustered. She let go of his hands slowly and then backed away so that she sat by his feet. He stared at her in confusion.

"I-I…" she stammered. She didn't know what to say. "I'll be right back." She hastily stood up, nearly knocking over the lantern and putting all her effort at neutralizing Tristan to waste. Glancing quickly at Tristan, making sure she was not dreaming, sure that he _was_ awake, she fled out of the _aravel_ into the cold night. Placing a hand over her chest in disbelief, her breath rolled out in a wave.

_Siofra, I need to get Siofra_. Anwen ran to her _aravel_, pulled the hide door open so fast that it actually woke the woman – if she had been sleeping anyway. Siofra stared at her in fright.

"He's awake." Anwen stated. She had never seen someone get up so fast. Siofra joined her in the cold.

"Truly?" Siofra asked, disbelief on her face. Anwen nodded and that was all that Siofra needed before running off into the night.

Anwen slumped against the _aravel_, exhausted. She studied her palms in the light of the stars. Strangely, they were not burned and they did not hurt. She wondered if she should follow Siofra, and then thought better of it. The woman would surely want time alone with her son, to figure out what had happened. Instead, she wanted to give Ronan the good news.

She knew he slept by the fire on most nights, when it was clear out like it was now. Standing straight, she moved toward the center of the village. As she walked, she heard stifled moans and muffled laughter. Thinking it must be coming from within an _aravel_, she continued forward, and then stopped in the shadows.

She could see the fire and she could see two figures entwined within its glow. They were fully clothed, for the most part, but it was unmistakable what was going on. She didn't want to believe it, but she saw their faces. She saw his face, full of lust as he moved atop her. Anwen turned away, escaping back to her _aravel_ in disgust, but mostly in hurt.


	11. Chapter 11

ELEVEN

"Gather your people, Keeper, for I would speak to them all." Eirlys had waited long enough to state her purpose. She knew now that she could lure Ronan to her cause, especially now that his brother had awakened. Especially after what had happened by the fire. He was everything she had hoped for in an ally – a great warrior, knowledgeable, and passionate.

Silas flicked his gaze over her tiredly. "And what would you say to them?"

"It is important." Eirlys replied. "I promise."

Silas remained where he stood and Eirlys assumed he was refusing her request, until he sighed. "You have at the least, proven yourself in battle. I will allow you to address the clan."

"_Ma serannas, _Keeper. You will not regret this." Eirlys said with a respectful bow of her head.

Silas made no reply, he only moved off to gather the clan. It took a while for them all to arrive, early as it was in the morning. They gathered in front of the fire, settling in on logs, or remaining standing, all with curious eyes set on her. She had mingled among them for a few days now, never revealing her purpose, only getting to know them. She caught the narrowed gaze of Harshal standing in the back with his arms crossed. She nodded toward him with a smile and he fidgeted in response at the surprising gesture. The time for pettiness was at an end, she needed all the support she could get.

Eirlys scanned the crowd before her – she noticed big Merrion, a toddler hanging onto his cloak; not far from him was Rhys, the hunter who had greeted her first, his wife Eleri sat by him, their daughter Tesni resting sleepily in her arms. Standing behind them, looking as tired as the young girl, was Anwen. Eirlys felt a brief stab of guilt as she studied the beautiful mage who refused to look up and only stared at the ground. Anwen was sweet and clearly in love with Ronan, but there were bigger things to think about. It was not Eirlys' fault that Anwen could not take the initiative with Ronan. It was her loss, and hopefully, Eirlys' gain.

She continued her searching of the crowd, nodding and acknowledging every pair of eyes she met. Finally, she rested on Ronan's blue eyes. A grin crept upon her face. He met her gaze, but did not acknowledge her grin. It did not matter, she had much to say, and she thought he would be interested to hear it all. When she found that everybody was there, except for Siofra, which was understandable, she stood up on a log and began.

"We are the Dalish; keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last Elvhenan. Never again shall we submit."

"Have you gathered us here so that you could recite the Oath of the Dales?" Harshal interrupted with a snort, elbowing the man next to him as if his remark were the cleverest thing to have come out of his mouth in months.

Eirlys turned her attention to Harshal. "It _is_ the Oath of the Dales. It is good that you remember it, for throughout my travels across the lands, many have forgotten it." She looked around the crowd. "Yes, we can all recite it. We learn it as children from the _hahren_. But it shames me to say that we have forgotten its meaning. _Never again shall we submit_. Let this last line find a place in your mind and do not let it go."

A murmur ran through the crowd and Eirlys recognized many a confused expression, many a frown. She would not be deterred from her purpose. Taking a deep breath, she continued. "We were once immortal. The lost city of Arlathan was majestic, a monument to our powers. We possessed magic the _shem'len_ could only ever dream of." Eirlys paused to let what she had said sink in. It was important to remind them of how glorious they once were.

"And then that all disappeared when we came into contact with humans. We became slaves to the Tevinter Imperium and we almost lost everything of our language, our history, and our very religion. Finally, after centuries of enduring this shameful existence, our ancestors rebelled. Rising up against our masters, the _shem'len_ would have us all believe it was for Andraste. And maybe some of them believed in what she was doing, fighting for freedom for all. But they fought for themselves, to free themselves from the yoke of the Tevinters. When she was betrayed, so was Shartan. When all was done, we were given the Dales as reward for our help, a lifeless land fraught with dangers, barbarians. They gave us scraps. But we took it."

Eirlys shook with passion as she continued, not caring anymore what others thought of her speech. "Freed now, our ancestors walked to the Dales, on a trail of tears – tears of happiness, for they were finally getting what they had dreamed of, and tears of sadness, for they had lost much to get it all. The _hahren _have no doubt told you of this time, called The Long Walk, in which many perished. The journey ended in Halamshiral, where our ancestors began to reclaim what was lost when Arlathan fell. They vowed never again to become involved in human struggles. For this, they were despised. The humans would not leave them alone, because they did not worship their gods. They spread false rumours of us to their people. Their chantry called a holy war on us, the Exalted March of the Dales, and invaded our homeland. Though our ancestors fought valiantly, the Dales fell, the Orlesians took our land, and dispersed our people, sending us into alienages or forcing us to become wandering clans."

"What is the purpose of this history lesson?" someone from the crowd called out, bringing Eirlys out of the trance she had entered in.

"Yes," someone else spoke up. "What is your point woman? It is a cold winter's day, and I'd like to check my traps before the sun is swallowed by the darkness. My family needs to eat."

Eirlys stepped down from the log and paced in front of the crowd. "The Dales belong to us. The chantry's precious Andraste's own sons gifted it to us. What right had they to take it away from us?"

"They made war on us and we lost." Harshal blurted out. "It's not very hard to understand."

"You accept this?" Eirlys asked, turning a hard gaze upon the crowd.

"What good would it do to refute it?" Harshal retorted with a snort. "It's not as if we can march back in and take the land back from Orlais."

"Why not?" Eirlys prodded. There were always doubters, but she knew how to handle them.

"Our people are scattered." Harshal smirked.

"And that would stop you? _Never again shall we submit_. Does that mean nothing to you? By accepting our fate, we are submitting to the _shem'len_. We are breaking our oath."

"What would you have us do?" a woman asked, holding tightly to her babe. "Our lives are hard enough without starting another war."

"United, we could take back what is rightfully ours. The Dalish, together with our brothers and sisters in the cities, we can find not just another homeland, but our rightful home, the Dales."

"And the _shems_ would welcome us with open arms." Harshal chuckled. "You are crazy."

Eirlys stood up on the log again. She shocked the crowd when she withdrew her dagger and cut across her palm. She turned her palm upside down and let the blood drip onto the snow below, a blotch of bright red among white. "Nothing comes without blood, without battle. If no one fights, nothing will change. To live again as we were meant to, together, speaking our own language, worshipping our gods in harmony, is a dream worth fighting for."

"A dream. That is what it is nothing more," Merrion said with a hint of sadness.

"It is not impossible." Eirlys spread her arms out. "Right here in Ferelden, the Dalish clans united to fight off the barbarians. Their arrows rained hell onto the _shem'len_. They showed them how skillful we are. How we are to be feared. The humans were defeated easily, because the Dalish were united." She jumped off of the log again. "We must act soon. Our brothers and sisters in the cities are turning to the Qun by the dozen. I have seen it with my own eyes. It is bad enough they are forced to accept the Chantry, but now, this?"

The crowd broke off into conversation, perhaps surprised by what she had said. She had planted the seeds and now all she had to do was wait and watch them grow. _Or wither and die_.

Silas arose and made his way in front of the crowd. He held his hands up for silence and then spoke, his eyes set on Eirlys only. "You twist the words of the Oath. We live apart from the humans. We retain our culture, our lore. We have not submitted and you are a fool to think so. Next time you come around, if there is an army at your back, we would consider joining you. Alas, right now, I see only you, a dreamer reaching further than she has any right to."

Eirlys drew back slightly. She was incredibly insulted by the Keeper's words. He was just like all the others then. What would it take for her words to reach people? If just one person were with her, she knew she could sway more to her cause. She glanced at Ronan then and couldn't read his face. He'd been quiet during her speech. Perhaps she was wrong about him after all. She straightened her shoulders and stood tall as a spear, her chin jutted out proudly. "I swear by all the Creators that this will come to be."

The crowd tensed. Eirlys had bravely stood up to their Keeper. Perhaps it was foolish, but she didn't regret it. She needed to show that she was serious.

"Be careful what you wish for." Silas warned before turning around and leaving the fireside. The rest of the clan followed, some quicker than others, but eventually, Eirlys was left almost alone.

Ronan remained seated, looking thoughtful. Eirlys went over to him, hunkering down next to him. Her hip pressed against him unintentionally, but she didn't bother to move away. She wanted to know what he was thinking.

"You have heard my purpose now. What do you think of it?" she asked.

"My blood is running. Your words have stirred something in me." Ronan replied. "To reclaim our homeland… that would be something."

His heart was in the right place, then. But it wasn't the right time to ask him. She would let it all sink in for him before asking.

She wouldn't have had the chance anyway, for Ronan stood up abruptly. "I have to go," he said before walking away. He hadn't even looked her in the eye, but that was just fine with her. _Let him go think_. Surely, that would be beneficial to her cause.


	12. Chapter 12

TWELVE

Siofra wasn't sure if she could keep her patience in check for any longer. Tristan just sat there, staring blankly at the walls of the _aravel_, refusing to eat, refusing to speak. He gulped down a lot of water, at the very least, but it still wasn't enough to regain his strength.

"You will not eat, you will not talk, please, tell me what is wrong?" she asked.

He continued to stare at the walls, not even bothering to look her way. He'd been like this for hours now. Siofra was getting more anxious by the minute. He was awake, but it was like he wasn't really there.

"Are you not even curious as to how you got here? Of who was watching over you when you awakened?" she asked, hoping to elicit some kind of response from him. Even a shrug would have calmed her nerves somewhat.

Tristan remained silent.

"Are you not even going to express your gratitude to us?"

He blinked but still said nothing. Did the blink mean anything, or was it just wishful thinking on Siofra's part? Siofra sighed. She was starting to wonder if Tristan even remembered anything. She had heard of people waking up and not even remembering who they were. "Do you even know who you are?" she asked it in slight jest, in impatience. She never expected he would answer.

Tristan turned to her then and met her eyes for the first time since he'd awakened. "I am a failure. I am a coward. I am the former Warden-Commander of Ferelden. I am Tristan Amell and I should be dead a hundred times over."

Siofra's eyes widened at her son's scratchy voiced proclamation. There was something terribly wrong then for him to think like this.

"I know something is wrong." Siofra said as gently as she could. He had finally spoken and she didn't want to say anything that would make him revert back to his muteness. She reached for his hand, but he pulled away. Impervious to the failed gesture, Siofra continued. "You can talk to me. I am your mother."

"You may have given birth to me, but you were never my mother." Tristan said after a short silence in which Siofra worried he had decided not to talk after all. "You gave up that title when you gave me up."

Siofra knew she shouldn't be surprised, yet she was. She thought they had come to some sort of an understanding, as awkward as it was. "I gave you up for your own good. I thought it was the right thing to do."

"You didn't do it for me." Tristan said quietly, looking right through her. "You were selfish. You didn't want a human baby. You didn't want to be alone. So you got rid of me, washed your hands of me."

Siofra sucked in her breath sharply. She felt a stab of pain in her chest. She was insulted by his words, but she knew he had a right to feel that way. "If I had been selfish, I would have kept you with me here in the clan, where you would have grown up ridiculed, and an outsider."

"Better an outsider than alone in an orphanage, on the streets. Better to be ridiculed than locked up in a tower for being a monster."

"You are not a monster," she said.

"You don't really know me."

"It was never meant to be that way." Siofra shook her head and attempted again to take her son's hand, but again he pulled back. "You were supposed to be taken to your father's family."

"Well… we all know what happened instead. And we all know that you never came looking for me, you never sought out the truth."

Siofra sat back, a hand to her temple. The gods knew she regretted never seeking out the truth when they brought back Alras' body. But it had been impossible at the time. Her father and her new husband had both set watchful eyes on her, afraid of her fleeing once again. And then she had Ronan. Her fate with the clan had been sealed then. She would never leave while she had a son there. Yet, somehow, she got the feeling that this was not really the issue, that Tristan was just attempting to divert her attention, to push her away. She removed her hand from her temple, placing it instead under Tristan's chin, forcing him to look her in the eye. "You are lashing out at me, and I get it. But that is not what is wrong here, is it?"

He pushed her away, and she could sense how much of an effort it took for him to do that simple movement. He was still feeling the effects of the poison.

"I'm tired of you trying to make up for my shitty childhood." Tristan said. "You don't owe me anything. I don't know how I got here, and frankly I don't care, because you should have just let me die."

"How can you say such a thing?" Siofra asked. She was so hurt that he would feel this way. And most of all, she was confused. "Life is a precious gift. Many people, including my husband and your brother, have risked their lives to save yours."

"They shouldn't have bothered. I deserved to die."

Siofra remembered Ronan's words about Brenna's burnt house. _I think, mother, you should face the fact that this might be Tristan's doing_. Could he have been right? Had Tristan done something horrible? She wanted to just come out and ask him, but perhaps she could draw it out of him slowly.

"I refuse to believe that." Siofra said, shaking her head yet again.

"I've caused so many deaths." Tristan said, the pain of that statement clear in his voice, in the creasing of his face. "You should have let me die, Siofra. It's what I deserve."

"You are wrong." Siofra admonished. "You've saved many lives."

"Not the ones that mattered." He looked away then, closing his eyes.

"Stop it." Siofra gently tilted his face back toward her. He didn't open his eyes, but she was eager to get through to him. "You shouldn't speak like this. It is the gods who say when our time is up, and there is nothing no mortal can do."

Tristan sighed lightly and then shifted away from Siofra. Silence fell over the _aravel_ for what seemed like hours. Siofra didn't know if her words had gotten through to him. She could hear the clan gathering outside, murmuring and chattering at whatever their visitor was saying. She still didn't know what was wrong, what had happened. She had to reach him somehow. She pulled out the pouch and tossed it at Tristan. It landed in his lap and at first he did nothing, but when he saw it from the corner of his eye, he reached for it, clutching it fiercely. That simple gesture said all Siofra needed to know.

"It _was_ Brenna's?" she asked.

Tristan nodded.

"When you said you couldn't save the people that mattered, did you mean Brenna?"

Another moment of silence passed as Tristan's eyes lingered on the small leather pouch. "They came for me and she paid the price."

"Her house is burnt to the ground."

He looked surprised to find that Siofra knew. "And she is…"

"Dead?" Siofra said the word that he couldn't.

He didn't nod in agreement, he didn't reply, but Siofra knew it was true by the pain in his face. Brenna was dead. Who would do such a vile thing? And they, whoever _they_ was, had tried to kill Tristan. It was no wonder he was feeling so guilty. To lose his love like that… Siofra felt tears welling up in her eyes and she ran a finger under her eyes to wipe them away. She needed to be strong for Tristan. It wouldn't do to break down in front of him now.

"The necklace…" she ventured, gesturing to the pouch.

Tristan drew open the pouch slowly and then pulled out the old necklace. His forehead creased in pain and his eyes, Siofra noticed for the first time since he'd awakened, had lost their light. "Alras was her father. Adalia her mother."

This time Siofra couldn't help emitting a sob, though she held back from losing it completely. "Brenna was one of us." She had sensed a familiarity about the girl – her green eyes, so much like Alras', and her genuine kindness, so much like Adalia. She had been so consumed with her own problems that she had never noticed the spark between Alras and Adalia ignite into a flame. _Oh, Neria… you would have been so angry had you known…_ "Her mother gave her the necklace then?"

Tristan shook his head. "No. It…"

"It what? Please go on." Siofra urged. She knew he probably did not want to talk about it, talk about Brenna. The loss was still fresh in his mind. He'd only just awakened. Her heart twisted in pain as she remembered how she felt when Rory had died. It would be better for him to talk about her, better by far than keeping it all inside.

He hesitated, sighing painfully. "It was mine. It was the only thing I had of my family, or what I assumed to be from my family. I had it with me for as long as I could remember, until she stole it from me."

"It _was_ from your family." Siofra said, unable to believe it. He did carry something of his family around with him all that time, something besides his tattoo. "My sister Neria used to make these. Alras would trade with them, or sell them."

Tristan stuffed the necklace back in the pouch, his face contorted in anger now. "Can you just leave me alone now?"

"I will… give you some time alone, but I would like to know a bit more first." Siofra stood her ground, not willing to leave things unsaid.

"Fine." Tristan agreed.

"Who would do this? Who would want to kill you?" she asked.

"I don't know." Tristan retorted sharply. "I have stepped over many toes to end the Blight, to set Ferelden to rights again. It could be anyone."

"What will you do?" Siofra asked.

He met her eye to eye and Siofra shivered at the cold look. "Since you have dragged me from the abyss and I am very much alive – vengeance _will_ be mine. They will pay for what they have done to her."

…

It was so easy to fool her. All he had to do was close his eyes and slow his breathing. Siofra herself fell asleep not long after the ruse.

_Had it been this easy for Arn and Perdita? _He dug his nails into his palms as he thought of the answer, a yes. He'd let down his guard, even though he'd felt the wrongness of it all in his bones.

He needed to get away and soon. Siofra would understand. If she didn't, he didn't care. Vengeance was the only thing that mattered now.

Tristan shoved the furs off of himself. He swung his legs onto the floor and stood up, dizziness briefly rushing through his head, turning his vision to black. Steadying himself, he glanced around the dim _aravel_. He found his boots and put them on quietly, much more of an effort than he thought it'd be.

He kept a watchful eye on Siofra, making sure she remained in slumber. He meant all that he said to Siofra. Maybe it was a little harsh. What did he care anyway? Siofra was better off without him. He'd only hurt her anyway, like everyone he came into contact with. _I'm a walking curse_.

He retrieved his cloak, fastened it around his body, and shivered still. He could not get warm. Finding his sword, he attached it to his back and then he was out in the darkness, fingering the leather pouch around his neck before shoving it under his tunic and fleeing into the night.


	13. Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

Ronan wanted to be alone this morning. He wanted to figure out what he was going to say to Tristan. He had a whole lot to say to him, and most of it was not good. But Eirlys had followed him into the forest. _By the gods, I spend one night with the woman and she's become my shadow. _He thought of the last time he'd spent the night with someone. Too long ago he had to admit, and quite painful to remember.

_At least Eirlys did not get drunk and call me _nothing, he chuckled. Surprisingly, Melisende was becoming a distant memory now. The pain her words caused him subsiding. And it wasn't because of Eirlys – but because of Anwen. And now he felt guilty of what he had done with Eirlys.

He and Anwen had made it clear to everyone else on numerous occasions that they were _just friends_. Everyone else except themselves. He winced at the thought of Anwen knowing what he had done. He felt like he had betrayed her.

"_Aneth era_, my friend. Is anybody in there?" Eirlys taunted.

"Why have you followed me?" Ronan asked.

"Is this what you do to all the girls you spend the night with? Avoid them the whole next day, and the next?" Eirlys leaned back against a tree trunk and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Only when they're as annoying as you are." Ronan grumbled.

Eirlys laughed. "Now I am annoying? Have you forgotten how I fired up your blood in more ways than one?"

Ronan grinned, despite himself. He shook his head and then removing a strand of hair from his face, he placed his hand on the tree trunk, to the side of Eirlys's face. "I haven't forgotten. What do you want from me? Another romp in the snow?"

"That would be fun." Eirlys replied, meeting his gaze. Ronan suddenly forgot all that he came to think about as he felt the heat from her body, the breath from her mouth reach his neck. Eirlys placed her hands on his shoulders. He closed his eyes, to try and break the spell. He couldn't do this to Anwen again. And then he was tossed backward by Eirlys. When he opened his eyes, Eirlys was watching him intently, a stern expression covering her face.

"It would be fun, but that is not my purpose now," she said.

Ronan was relieved, and a little disappointed too, he had to admit. "Then what is your purpose?" he asked impatiently.

"I am moving on to Keeper Lanaya's clan. My message here has for the most part fallen on deaf ears, with one exception. You told me that my words stirred you, made your blood run. Come with me, Ronan. Together we can reclaim the Dales for our people."

Ronan caught his breath. It was something worth fighting for. The gods only knew he had thought of the very possibility of that. But he had never dreamed it could ever happen. Eirlys made him think it could. But there were things to consider now. He couldn't just leave his clan again. He couldn't leave Anwen alone. Eirlys watched him closely, waiting for his reply.

"If you would have come around a year or two years ago, I would have followed you, would have been your biggest supporter. It is a cause, a dream worth fighting for," he said finally.

"So what has changed?" Eirlys asked.

"I…" Ronan sighed. A lot had changed. The reality of the world had crushed his little boy dreams. He knew what she wanted was something near impossible. How could he ever hope to make a difference? Did he even want to? He had befriended humans, when before they were nothing but _shem'lens_. Even done more with one, a badge of shame he still wore. There was just so much to consider now.

"I can see you want to come." Eirlys said. She had a thoughtful, mischievous look on her face that made Ronan nervous. "You lost to me in _bora'durgen'en_, therefore I claim as my victory right… your place at my side. Together we will gather the support needed to make this dream a reality."

Ronan chuckled. "And here I thought our night by the fire was your claim."

"No, I never asked for that. It was a natural conclusion to the game."

"Well, that's the first time I ever experienced that sort of conclusion. I feel violated."

Eirlys sighed. "Quit deflecting my words with jests."

Ronan frowned. She was trying to trap him into going with her. Had that been her plan all along? Well, she would not get what she wanted, not so easily anyway. "The terms of the game only mentioned the victor _asking_ the loser. You never said the loser had to accept whatever was asked."

It was Eirlys' turn to frown. "I knew I should have closed that loophole… but truthfully, I thought it would be easy to convince you to come with me. I guess I was wrong."

"There is much for me to consider. You cannot expect me to just leave my clan."

"Your clan?" Eirlys snorted. "Or Anwen?"

Ronan narrowed his eyes at the woman, anger started to build within him. "I've given you my answer, now leave me be."

"You have not given me an answer. You have just danced around it, coming up with lame excuses to cower here in the forest for the rest of your life."

Something in Ronan snapped. She had hit far closer to the truth than he liked. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and stared her down. "I am not a coward."

"Ronan!"

He tilted his head in the direction of the shout. It was Anwen, grasping at the bark of a tree, her face blank but cold as her gaze flickered over the scene before her.

"Your mother wants you. Something is wrong." Anwen said. She turned and fled before Ronan could ask anything of her.

With a frustrated roar, he let go of Eirlys.

"If you change your mind," she said, rubbing the place on her arm which he held seconds before, "seek me out."

"Goodbye Eirlys." Ronan made his way back to the village in a miserable mood.

…

"What is it?" Ronan's voice reached the inside of the _aravel_. "What is wrong?" The hides shifted and he came through. He looked to be in a foul mood and Siofra braced herself as he noticed the empty spot where Tristan should be. "He's gone. Why am I not surprised?"

Siofra was not surprised either. With all the things Tristan had said, somehow she had expected him to get up and leave. He wasn't quite ready though, and she worried for him. He was still weak. She was angry with herself for falling asleep, for not waking up as he left. She could have persuaded him to stay had she caught him fleeing. At least for a little while longer, while he regained his strength. Then she could have convinced him this could be his home. She sighed, knowing how hard that would have been. _It is a silly dream to want my two sons by my side_.

"Ronan," Siofra whispered his name. She knew this would not be easy. She half expected this to be a useless, time wasting endeavor, but she had to ask, for the sake of Tristan. But first, she had to explain to Ronan everything that she had found out from Tristan. Ronan hovered in front of her, his mouth set in an angry pout. "Brenna is dead. Tristan has gone to seek vengeance on shadows, for he doesn't even know who sent the assassins."

Ronan's expression changed to one of shock as he looked beyond Siofra to Silas, who sat in silence in the back. She had half forgotten he was there. "Brenna…" Ronan said quietly. "Why her? She would never hurt a fly."

Siofra shrugged. She took a deep breath as she remembered the woman who'd been so much in love with Tristan. _Alras' daughter…such a tragic end. Just like her father…_ Siofra wiped away the tears that threatened to drop from her eyes. She had to be strong. "They were to kill Tristan. I suppose Brenna was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"It figures that he would come out unscathed once again…"

"Unscathed? He nearly died!" Siofra interrupted sharply. She didn't believe Ronan could be so cold.

"Did I say that out loud?" Ronan chuckled nervously. "I'm sorry." Ronan's features softened and Siofra believed him to be genuine. "I… I didn't mean that. I am not without sympathy for Tristan, believe me, nothing could be worse than losing someone you care about."

"It gladdens my heart to know this, for I would ask something of you, something I know you will not like." Siofra braced herself for a refusal. Already Ronan had backed away slightly, probably sensing what was coming. "I want you to go after Tristan and convince him to come back here."

"No." Ronan stated flatly with a shake of his head. "I will not chase that _len'alas lath'din_ down again. I've done that once before and that was enough for a lifetime."

She knew that would be his reply, but still she pressed on, hoping against all hope that he would change his mind. "Please, Tristan is still weak. He is filled with grief, filled with revenge. The world is dangerous. He shouldn't be alone right now."

"Why would I want to chase down a raving lunatic bent on revenge? Not to mention, he's a mage! He's probably going to go crazy magic on me. I am not going after him._ Mamae_, you know I would do anything for you - but not this. I'm sorry." Ronan glanced once again at Silas, probably for support, but Silas, as always, remained silent. Siofra knew he would speak eventually – and she prayed that Silas would speak in her favour, for he had a great influence over Ronan.

"He needs to be brought home." Siofra said.

"Where is home? Here?" Ronan waved his hand around at the tiny _aravel_. "If you want that so much, why don't _you_ go and get him?"

Siofra would like nothing more than to do just that. But ever since her sickness, she wasn't as strong as she used to be. The winter was hard on her, too, wrapping its icy fingers painfully around her joints. If that was what she had to do, however, to get Tristan back, then she would go. She gazed defiantly back at Ronan. "Maybe I will." She turned around and began gathering things she would need. A warm cloak, a ration of food, her longbow, her quiver of arrows…

"No," Ronan grabbed her arm gently, a frantic look on his face as he flicked his gaze from his mother to his father and back again. "I didn't mean that. Please don't do this. It is dangerous out there."

"So you admit it now." Siofra said, brushing off her son's grip. "It is dangerous out there."

"Not for a grown man. Tristan is a mage, he can take care of himself, like he always has."

The last remark hurt Siofra, reminding her of her absence from Tristan's life. _I was never there for him_. She gathered herself, refusing to give in to Ronan. "And I cannot take care of myself? I have been in that world before. I had a life before you were born, something you seem to always forget. I know what I am doing."

"That is enough." Silas had crept near them and his booming voice startled the both of them. He stepped in between the two of them. "You are staying," he said to Siofra and then turned to Ronan. "You are going."

Ronan laughed in disbelief. "You cannot make me do anything."

"You are right my son. But if you do not go, your mother will. And if she goes…" Silas turned to her then, a cold look in his eyes. She shivered at the look, at the resentment smoldering within it. "If she goes, she is no longer welcome in the clan."

Siofra could not find any words as Ronan looked at his father in horror. Silas had always been cold but never like this. She wondered if he truly meant it, or if it was only to get Ronan to do her bidding.

"I cannot believe you father." Ronan said through gritted teeth. "You would threaten me, threaten mother for _him_?"

"Your mother has committed a grave sin by conceiving a child with a human. For too long it has been ignored. It is not spoken of, but the clan suspects it. It doesn't matter what the child has become. I have tolerated this secret long enough now. If she were to go after him, it would only confirm the unspoken. I would have to act as Keeper. I would have to banish your mother."

Siofra hung her head in her hands. This was all too much to bear. Silas was only trying to protect her, had always been looking out for her. But the way he said the words were hurtful, like she had been an unwanted, tainted burden all her life. His words made sense though. If the obvious was confirmed to the clan, that Tristan was her son, it wouldn't matter if he were the Hero of Ferelden, it wouldn't matter if he had saved them from slavers – all that would matter was that he was half human. Some members of the clan would demand she be punished and Silas would have to act. She'd been delusional to think that she ever could have raised Tristan among her people. It had been a fantasy, and nothing more.

Ronan shook his head. "This doesn't make sense. If I go after him, it will mean the same thing. If I bring him back here…"

"I suspect he won't want to come back. If by the gods he does, I will make an excuse." Silas said. "As for you running off without notice, it has happened before, nobody will get suspicious."

"Half the clan already knows the truth." Ronan said with narrowed eyes, visibly flinching at his father's jibe about him having run off before. "Even an outsider guessed it. But if there is a chance that some would demand punishment of mother… then I cannot let that happen. I will go." He turned to Siofra, anger, hurt, and something like shame in his eyes. "You show too much concern for someone who cares not one bit about you."

"He is my son." Siofra whispered in her defense.

"I am your son, yet you never sent anyone after me and now you send me off into the gods know what."

"I love you both. Stop thinking that is not so! I care for you, yet I know you are capable. If he doesn't want to return, then please, follow him, help him, and make sure he's alright."

"Bah…" Ronan grumbled.

"Take Rhys with you." Silas said before Ronan turned abruptly around and left the _aravel_ without a goodbye.

Siofra hugged her knees to her chest. As she closed her eyes the tears finally came and she sobbed quietly, mindful of Silas' presence. She wondered if she had done the right thing. Perhaps she should have just let Tristan be. She should never have threatened to run off after him. Now, both of her sons could be in danger and there was nothing she could do about it.

_Mythal keep them close…_


	14. Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

The winter sun was split in two by the tip of a tall pine. Shielding her eyes from the blinding ball of fire, Anwen came to a stop. She'd been running, her heart pounding furiously against her chest. Looking away from the sun, she placed a palm above her heart – it, like the sun, was split in two.

Ronan and Eirlys. Eirlys and Ronan. The images flashed before her eyes again, no matter if they were open or closed. The lust in his eyes as they were entwined by the fire stood out starkly in her mind. _Rutting like animals for the entire village to see and hear_. She shuddered in disgust. And then she came upon them again in the forest, deep in conversation. Anwen didn't care if Ronan and Eirlys had been arguing. The damage had already been done.

She felt foolish. She felt hurt. Ronan had refused her advances before, breaking off a kiss. Granted, it wasn't the ideal time or place for a kiss, as she pretended it was only to hide from the Templars, but she thought he had liked it, at least a little, even if he looked like he longed for someone else. She'd been too scared to try again. But she was sure he had feelings for her. How could she be so stupid? How could she be so naïve? He never liked her. He said before that he felt like the consolation prize, now she wondered if that was her. _He wanted his sword back and instead, he got stuck with me_. Well, now she knew the truth. This was not her home, and here she was, running away, not even knowing how, not even knowing where she was going.

Anwen staggered forward, clutching an old gnarled tree for support. The rough bark scraped her palms, the pain intensified by the cold air. She cried out and found herself turning into a fountain of tears. She sniffled and wiped away some of the tears before they could turn to ice. Through the tears she spotted a hollow in the trunk of the tree, a piece of cloth hanging from it. She reached for it in curiousity, and pulled, but it was heavy. Leaning over she examined it more closely – it wasn't frozen to the tree. She pulled again, much too hard for as the cloth bundle emerged she fell backward into the snow, her hood sliding off her head.

Anwen let out her breath in a huff and pushed her hair back with a frown. She fingered the cloth carefully. The bundle was a long narrow shape. _Probably a sword_, she thought as she began to unwrap. Slowly a blade emerged, a hilt, and as it did, she recognized it, and threw it at once to the ground.

It was the sword that killed Ty. It was Ronan's sword. The very one he'd risked everything to retrieve. The sword he'd believed tainted, then cleansed on the ship to Ferelden, but still he'd hidden it away, refused to use it. Anwen saw a different image in her mind now, the moment the sword had plunged into Ty's body. The tears fell from her eyes again. _I could have done something. I could have used my magic if I wasn't such a coward. I wish they'd never come for me. I wish they would have left me in the Gallows. _She was the reason Ty was dead, the sword was only the instrument that made it happen. She sobbed quietly, feeling unworthy.

"There's another set of tracks here."

"They're small, probably not his. Let's keep following these."

The voices startled her from her misery. She stilled and covered her head with her hood. She recognized the voices – Rhys and Ronan. She didn't want to be found. That was the last thing she wanted.

"So, tell me again why we're chasing down the Grey Warden?" Rhys asked. Anwen searched through the trees, but couldn't yet see them. She hoped she was far enough off the path to remain unseen.

"Because my father said so." Ronan replied. Their feet crunched through the hard crust of the snow. They were getting closer.

"But why?"

"Because if we don't go, my mother will. And if she goes, we are one member short in the clan."

"Why?"

The footsteps halted. "Why, why, why? Gods, do you never shut up?" Ronan sounded angry.

"Excuse me for trying to understand why you have dragged me away from my family in the middle of winter. You know I'm always ready to help, but seeing the pissy mood you're in, I'd rather be sitting in a frozen stream right now."

Anwen tilted her head slightly, catching a glimpse of the two men. Ronan was scowling. "Look Rhys, you know why my mother can't go – if she does, everyone will know the truth."

"So? Everyone already does know."

"I know. My father has twisted my arm in this matter though. He threatened to take action against her if she went, which she was very well willing to."

Rhys shook his head. "I don't believe Uncle Silas would do something like that."

"Well, I'm not so sure he wouldn't."

"You sure?"

"I'd rather not take that chance, even if it were all just a ploy to get me to go…" Ronan turned from his cousin and then began to walk again, closer to where Anwen was huddled in the snow. She bit her lip, wondering if she should try and hide behind a tree or something.

"Okay, so what do we do when we find him?" Rhys asked.

"Knock him over the head and drag him back to the village. Maybe you could put another arrow through him for good measure."

"Are you serious?"

Anwen pulled her foot along the snow, readying herself to stand, but the movement made a scraping noise against the snow.

"Did you hear that?" Ronan asked, looking back at Rhys.

Anwen held her breath and closed her eyes. _Go away, please, go away_… When she opened her eyes they stood before her, watching her curiously.

"Anwen?" Ronan asked. She was hidden under her hood, but she nodded her head carefully. She couldn't let them see the evidence of her earlier tears.

"Look," Rhys smacked Ronan on the shoulder and pointed in front of Anwen. "It's your sword. I thought you lost it. Looks like Anwen found it." Rhys went over and picked up the sword, holding it out for Ronan. He hesitated slightly, wavered a little, before accepting it from Rhys. _He doesn't want to look the coward in front of his cousin_.

"What are you doing so far from the village?" Ronan asked. After slinging the sword over his shoulder, he stuck his hand out to her, to help her to stand. She ignored it and stood up on her own, shrugging in response to his question. With confusion on his face, he continued. "I was looking for you. You've been avoiding me, I think."

Anwen shook her head. She couldn't look at him, she didn't want to meet his eyes. He acted like nothing was wrong, like nothing had happened for her to be out here all alone.

"Well, maybe it's a good thing we stumbled upon her. She found your sword. Maybe she could come with us, too. Her magic might be useful." Rhys suggested, oblivious to the tension that had arisen between the two.

"It's too dangerous for her. She needs to go back to the village." Ronan said sternly.

"Where are you going?" This question Anwen directed at Rhys. From the corner of her eyes she caught the anger flaring from Ronan.

"We're going to find Tristan, the Grey Warden." Rhys replied, glancing anxiously at Ronan. He seemed to have realized there was something more going on there. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

"I will come with you." Anwen said quietly. The last thing she wanted was to be near Ronan, but this would give her a chance to slip away somewhere far away from the forest.

"G-great…" Rhys said nervously as Ronan shook his head. Rhys rubbed the strap of his quiver, shrinking away from the hard stare of his cousin. "Uh, how far do you think he's gotten?"

Ronan shrugged, still sending an icy glare at Rhys. He seemed to give in to the idea of Anwen tagging along though. He turned to the tracks in the snow. "As long as the tracks he so carelessly left don't get filled in or blown over, we should find him soon enough."

"We should be off, then…" Rhys suggested. Ronan nodded and then led the way. Anwen took a deep breath, hidden under her hood, and then followed. _Only for a little while…_

…

Tristan had to stop, even though he didn't want to. _It's happening again_, he thought as his lungs burned with the effort of running through the snow. The poison had left him weak, when all he wanted was to be strong again, to catch up with the murderers and give them what they deserved. Then, he didn't care what happened to him.

He leaned back against a tree, his head swimming with dizziness. He tried to shake the feeling away but it didn't help. He'd made it out of the forest into the rolling hills of South Reach, following a well used path. It wouldn't do for him to fall now, when he could have been so much farther already. He felt the arrow wound underneath his cloak –it was already healed when he woke up, probably by magic, but it still bothered him. When he looked up again, two figures stood before him.

Their cloaks were ragged and threadbare, the leather armor beneath was old and looked like it had been used way back in the rebellion against Orlais. Their faces were hidden in the shadows of their hoods, and for a moment Tristan tricked himself into believing they were Arn and Perdita and he lashed out suddenly with his sword. He hit nothing but air as they backed away. One of the figures laughed while the other pulled out a sharp, shiny dagger and circled around him.

"Nice sword you got there, stranger," the man with the dagger said.

"It'd look better on me," the laughing man said, tossing back his head in more laughter.

Tristan leaned back against the tree as his vision blurred. He glared at the men, too weak to do anything else. He hoped they wouldn't notice his weakness. He tried to call upon his magic, but the dizziness would not let him concentrate enough.

"Why don't you toss it to us, eh?" the man with the dagger closed in on him. "We'll even give you something in return for it. We're good for our word, aren't we?"

"Yes, we'll give you something for it…" the other man sneered.

"Do you really want to try me?" Tristan said, his voice still rough with disuse. Through his fuzzy vision, Tristan caught a glimpse of three more figures coming behind the two shady fellows before him. He blinked away the blurriness and realized they were elves.

"Run along now cowards." It was Ronan, pointing a plain looking _dar'misan_ in the laughing man's direction. "Save yourself the time of staring in surprise – this man is not only deranged, but a mage. You really don't want to mess with him."

"Like we're going to take the word of a couple of Dalish knife ears," the man with the dagger scoffed.

Tristan's fists started glowing. He didn't know how it happened, but he felt the heat there, ready to burst forth. It was different from his usual fire spell. He didn't know if he could control it. He dropped his sword and everyone turned to look at him. The shady fellows stared in wide eyed surprise.

"Then again, maybe they're right. Let's get out of here." The man sheathed his dagger and then shoving his companion forward, they ran off. Ronan watched, making sure they were truly well and off before sheathing his own sword. The elf beside him lowered his bow and placed the arrow back in his quiver. Tristan recognized the man, though it was so long ago that he'd seen him, before everything, that he didn't quite recall the man's name.

"You left without saying _hello_, brother." Ronan said.

Tristan didn't need this. He felt his fists burning still and tried to stop it. It didn't work. He met his brother's angry gaze. "You had a whole day to do the same."

Ronan stared back at him. To Tristan's surprise, the angry stare softened. "Anyway, those jerks are gone now, you can stop… glowing…"

"Maybe I want you gone as well." Tristan retorted.

Ronan sighed. "What do you think you're doing? You can't even stand up straight."

"Go away."

"No, sorry, I can't do that." Ronan stood his ground, crossing his arms over his chest, refusing to back away.

Tristan faltered, slumped a little against the tree. His fists stopped glowing. _Too bad, maybe if they'd continued to glow, they would have left me alone…_

"Brenna was murdered." Ronan said, inching slightly closer to him. "I know you want to go out there and gut the bastards who did it, but you can't. Not now, anyway. You're too weak. We're here to bring you home or to help you."

"Home?" Tristan might have laughed at such a preposterous idea, but instead he coughed. There was no place for laughter in his life anymore anyway. The mention of her had stung him deep inside. "I have no home."

"Then we'll follow you and help you in your quest to avenge Brenna."

Tristan flinched at the second casual use of her name. "I don't need any help…" he sunk all the way to the ground this time, his head pounding in pain, his legs much too weak to continue standing. All he needed was a small break. Then he'd be good to go again. If only he could get them to leave him alone.

"Anwen can you do something for him?" Ronan asked the third figure who stood quietly behind them all.

The hooded woman came closer, kneeling before him. He recognized her violet eyes. She was the one who stopped him from burning the _aravel_, probably the one that had healed his wound. She shook her head and then stepped back. "He needs food and rest, that's all."

Tristan forced himself up. "I need neither." He was determined to see this through quickly. He moved forward, back on the road, praying he would not falter before them again. To his disappointment, they followed him. He would allow them to follow, for the time being. Once he had the chance, he would move ahead without them. It was something he had to do alone.


	15. Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

The sun was setting down the imperial highway. They'd made good time, skirting the hills, crossing the river, until finally reaching the old highway that would take them to Denerim. Only because Tristan seemed not willing to stop, amazing for a man in such a weakened state, and only because Ronan did not want to let the man out of his sight, had they been able to walk so far for two days straight, without rest, relying on the light of the stars to guide them by darkness. And then finally, they all seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement to halt by the dilapidated old inn once it came into view. The day was growing colder and it felt like snow in the air. The stars most definitely would not show up tonight. Ronan stood apart, watching as the hazy sun slowly disappeared behind a row of crumbling Tevinter columns and then was swallowed up by the incoming clouds of snow doom.

"_You go, or I'll banish your mother. Take Rhys_… like I'm a weakling who can't defend myself." Ronan kicked at the ground in frustration. His legs ached and his head was heavy with tiredness. He wasn't aware that he was talking out loud, impersonating his father in his frustration with the situation he found himself in. "_I'm coming. I don't care if Ronan thinks it's dangerous. I don't care if I get locked up in a tower for the rest of my life…_"

Rhys cleared his throat. "You know, talking to yourself in, ahem… a womanly voice is the first sign of madness."

Ronan turned around, angry that his cousin had crept up on him and heard the embarrassing things coming out of his mouth. He did what he always did when annoyed with Rhys – he punched him in the shoulder. "Shut up."

"Ow." Rhys rubbed his shoulder. "Is something wrong?"

"Everything." Ronan replied.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Ronan brushed past Rhys toward the old inn. It wasn't much to look at – rotten wood, slightly crooked walls and all – but it did still have a roof and hopefully it was sturdy enough to take shelter in for the night. Ronan shuddered at the thought of it falling onto them, however, his exhaustion was much too overwhelming to really care at that point. With a quick side glance towards Tristan, he went over to the inn and pushed open the door. It creaked, and then fell to the floor, sending a spatter of dust into his face. Rhys shuffled past him into the inn, now consisting of only one very large room.

"Not as cozy as my _aravel_, but it'll do." Rhys said, plunking down by the wall furthest from the broken door.

"On second thought, I'd rather sleep outside." Ronan grumbled. He was about to turn away, to go back into the cold, but Tristan shoved him unceremoniously inside. Anwen followed through, her gaze fixed to the floor.

"Wolves." Tristan said in explanation.

"I didn't see any." Ronan muttered under his breath, but he knew his brother was right, for a symphony of howls reached into the old place, silencing them all. Ronan was suddenly glad that Ash had not followed him, for the lone wolf could do nothing against a large pack of probably hungry, bloodthirsty wolves, and a large pack that seemed to be not far from their shelter for the night.

"Someone light a torch to keep them away." Ronan said, pointedly glancing at the two mages in the group. Neither of them made any move to do what he asked. Ronan sighed loudly and began searching for a piece of wood, anything to make fire. He didn't have to be here. He didn't have to be following his hero brother in the cold, for an impossible revenge. And he certainly didn't know why Anwen was suddenly giving him the cold shoulder… unless she _knew_. But how could she know about him and Eirlys? He found a broken old chair and tossed it into the inn's fireplace. It looked in somewhat good working condition. "Rhys, light it up," he called out.

"A fire will attract bandits." Tristan warned quietly.

"If the choice is bandits or a pack of hungry wolves," Ronan retorted, "I'd rather take my chances with the bandits." He called for Rhys again, but much to his annoyance, Rhys was already snoring.

"Bandits, wolves…" Tristan had come up behind him. He put his hands over the fireplace and Ronan unconsciously flinched back as fire appeared from them. Tristan turned to him with something of pain and sadness in his eyes. "There's not much difference between the two. They both prey on the innocent."

As Tristan walked away to find a spot to settle in, Ronan realized his mistake. _The fire, Brenna… _Deciding to just keep his mouth shut for the rest of the night, Ronan stretched out onto the floor. He didn't quite trust Tristan to stay the whole night, but it was a chance he had to take. He had to get some sleep, even if Tristan didn't seem to need any. _He's probably using some kind of a spell to keep on going…_ He noticed Tristan had closed his eyes and thought how foolish he was being. _Tristan is mortal, just like the rest of us, even if he is using a spell, he needs sleep, he needs to regain mana_.

Before closing his own eyes, he searched the room for Anwen. She sat far away from everyone else, shivering under her cloak. Ronan thought that they must make a funny sight, a group of people, family even, yet all sitting sullenly alone in awkward silence. Well, except for Rhys, whose snores drowned out the howls of the wolves somewhat. Ronan tossed a piece of rubble at Anwen's feet to grab her attention. She looked up, and Ronan momentarily caught his breath as he viewed her violet eyes glittering in the firelight. He gestured for her to come by the fire but she shook her head and then looked away.

_By the gods_, he thought, _why are women so hard to understand sometimes?_ If he were cold and if someone gestured for him to come by the fire, he'd do it. Why was she being so stubborn? He decided to let it go. If she wanted to be cold, then that was her problem. His lids were heavy and threatening to close. He'd have to give in to his tiredness sooner or later. As it was, it happened to be sooner, for he soon found himself drifting off into sleep.

Then, he found himself dreaming, for the darkness swirled around him and turned into light and he was standing in the middle of the forest, in front of one of the many small waterfalls, and it definitely wasn't winter. Everything was green, lush, and overgrown, and it was as warm as if it were really a summer day. The sound of the rushing water drowned out every other sound in the forest and when he turned away from the waterfall, he saw his father.

"Why did you threaten her?" his dream self asked. "How could you be so cruel?"

Silas leaned on a spear and gazed beyond Ronan to the waterfall. "If she had gone after him, I wouldn't have had to banish her."

"What do you mean?" Ronan asked in confusion. "Why can't you just speak plainly for once? I don't understand why you forced me to go if you were never going to banish her or punish her in the first place."

"You ask for plain words, then I will say it as clear as day. She would have died."

"Right, you were protecting her by threatening her?" Ronan shook his head in disbelief. "You couldn't have possibly known that."

"There are things I know to be certain. This was one of them."

"You couldn't have just told me this? You had to use threats against me too?"

"I needed for you to go. She would not have listened to me if she knew, and you would not have believed me. She never would have given up and she would have met her death." Silas turned his eyes onto Ronan.

"You have very little faith in me father. I would do anything for mother. You didn't have to lie."

Silas shook his head slightly. "I couldn't take that chance. The biggest fear your mother has after the fear of losing her children, is losing her clan. Sending you after the Warden would keep her here, safe, and alive. Would you have gone had I told you this quest will bring nothing but grief, that you won't find what you are looking for?"

"If it meant saving mother's life, yes!" Ronan fell to his knees before his father. "You are not making sense. You just wanted to send me away again. You are ashamed of me."

"The only one ashamed of you is you." Silas turned away and began to fade away into the forest.

"Wait!" Ronan shouted, standing up quickly, reaching out for his father. "This quest – you said it would only bring grief, that we would never find revenge. Is this another one of your certainties?"

But Silas never looked back and he never answered. He disappeared into the forest, carrying away all the light and warmth with him until Ronan was alone in the darkness. A loud crackling sound sent his lids fluttering open. The fire burned and for a moment Ronan was confused. _What just happened? It all seemed so real…_ He pulled himself up into a sitting position and remembered where he was.

He shifted his gaze around the old inn. Rhys was still curled up, asleep, and snoring loudly. The wolves had settled down, but still emitted long howls every now and again. It seemed like no time at all had passed since he fell asleep. He continued his search around the room – Tristan was still there. _Good, but is he really sleeping?_ It looked like he had never moved. He spotted Anwen, awake and shivering still. With a tired sigh, Ronan stood up and made his way over to her.

The fire had made him hot and so he removed his cloak, and sitting next to Anwen, held it out to her. She pretended not to notice it, but Ronan saw her eyes flicker hesitantly between the garment and her hands. Her teeth chattered loudly and finally, Ronan could not stand her indecision anymore. He placed the cloak on top of her and drew her into his arms. She stiffened at his touch and he frowned. That wasn't what he was expecting. There was something wrong between them, but he didn't know what.

"You know, if you had come by the fire earlier, you wouldn't have had to _endure_ this kind gesture." Ronan snipped with eyes narrowed.

"I am not a damsel in distress that needs rescuing from every slightest thing." Anwen retorted. "A little cold harms no one."

"Tell that to the people who freeze to death."

They sat in silence. Ronan did not let her go, and neither did Anwen push him away. He took that as a good sign, but knew there was something wrong. Had she heard some gossip about him? But why would she care, anyway, if he had spent one night with Eirlys? It didn't mean anything. If she were so angry with him, then why too, did she come along? What was she doing so far away from the village, with his sword? There was so much he wanted to ask her, that he should ask her, but somehow he just couldn't.

After a while, she stopped chattering, stopped shivering, and relaxed against his side. The sensation of her next to him, even separated by two cloaks and more clothing – it just felt _right_. It was a feeling he never had before, even with Melisende, a woman he thought he'd been in love with.

"What happened?" Anwen asked quietly. He looked to her in puzzlement and then saw that her gaze rested on his handless left arm.

"You never heard the story?"

She shook her head. "Only bits and pieces. I never know what to believe, especially when Harshal is telling the story."

Ronan chuckled. "Never believe a word that comes out of his mouth. He likes to embellish everything, even inflate his own deeds. He's a real storyteller that one."

"I know… he reminds me of Ty."

"But Ty always told it like it was." Ronan smiled sadly. "It was always better that way anyway.'

"So tell me what happened, just the way it happened."

Ronan took a deep breath and then recounted to her in whispers what had happened. How his clan had been targeted by slavers, would have been taken away had he and the Grey Wardens not reached them in time. He told her about the battle on the ship, where he was cornered by a Qunari mercenary that knocked his sword away. "I was such a fool, I thought I could do it all on my own. The Qunari cut right through in one swing. I don't remember what happened after that, but," he shot a glance toward Tristan, still sitting with his eyes closed, "he saved me. He saved my life."

"Tristan?" Anwen asked.

Ronan nodded. It was as if he just realized what had happened. He'd always been so consumed with anger for losing his hand that he hadn't realized just how much Tristan had done for him. He'd finished off the Qunari and healed him later. Ronan had thanked him, but he'd never really shown his gratitude. _I owe him. I really do have to be here, not just for mother's sake, but for his._ In his epiphany, he forgot about his dream.

"Ronan?" Anwen whispered. He'd gotten lost in his thoughts for a moment. Bolstered by his new convictions, he let go of Anwen and shifted into a position in front of her, to see her face to face. She was so beautiful, inside and out. Why did it take so long for him to realize this? Why had he been holding back? She turned away from his intense gaze, her shyness overcoming her once again. He gently brought her face back to face his.

"Your scar is not a birthmark," he said. She lowered her eyes, reluctant it seemed to acknowledge his words. "A story for a story? I already gave you mine."

"It's not a pleasant story."

"Neither was mine."

Anwen timidly removed his hand from the side of her face. "I did it to myself."

"Why?" Ronan asked.

"I thought it would make me look ugly."

"Why would you want to be ugly?" Ronan couldn't understand why anyone would intentionally inflict pain on themselves. "If anything, the scar just makes you even more striking to look at."

"It didn't matter anyway. Nothing would stop it." Anwen stammered out.

"Stop what?"

"In Starkhaven… Lachlan…" Anwen paused, turning away from Ronan's gaze. "He was much more evil than you know, Ronan. He… used me… so many times…"

Ronan's fist curled up in anger. He wanted to punch the wall. He wanted to go back in time and… "If I could go back in time, I'd give him an infinitely slower, more torturous, more painful death for all he has ever done."

"It doesn't matter anymore." Anwen said. "He's dead. It doesn't matter anymore."

"The people who let this happen deserve to die… the Circle of Magi, the Templars, the chantry, even the damn ruling family of Starkhaven…"

"Ronan stop. I said it doesn't matter anymore."

Ronan attempted to rein in his anger, before he woke the rest of them. Anwen's lack of confidence, shyness, it all made sense now. She'd never known love the way it was supposed to be. It was a wonder she had retained her goodness throughout all that darkness. He didn't know what came over him, but suddenly he wanted to remind her how a kiss should taste like and he leaned in for a kiss. But she turned away.

"I haven't forgotten," she said, as if she had known his purpose. "I just want to sleep now, so please…"

Ronan backed away and nodded. As his eyes met hers, he saw the hurt there. He left his cloak with Anwen and went back to the fire. He would need his sleep, only he didn't know if it would come. There were so many things running through his head, it would confuse even the gods themselves.


	16. Chapter 16

SIXTEEN

He should have left once they were all asleep, but the wolves had continued their bloodthirsty howling through the night. As much as Tristan wished for death, he had to deliver it first to her murderers. And truth be told, running from a pack of wolves in the snow wasn't the most appealing way to return to her. Once the first light of morning shone through the cracks in the old inn's walls, he quietly left the place to enter into the brisk outside. A new blanket of snow covered the world again and he had to shield his eyes from the bright reflections.

Shivering slightly, he moved forward onto the old imperial highway, stepping in what looked to be the trail of a recently passed cart. He was so cold. No matter what he did, even when he glowed with the power of fire, he could not get warm anymore. He supposed it was only what he deserved. He probably deserved more than just an uncomfortable feeling of perpetual cold for his numerous failures, but so far, that was all that was sent his way. Honestly, Tristan hoped more was coming. He wasn't a masochist – he didn't enjoy misery, only thought that it was only fair for him to suffer a little, after all he had done, or hadn't done to others.

Tristan continued walking in the tracks of the cart, thinking how fortunate he was in that they would cover his tracks from Ronan. _Oh the irony, thinking myself lucky when he knows where I'm off to anyway. Maker, you should have sent me some luck earlier, when I needed it, when she needed it…_ Tristan closed his eyes in pain. The Maker had never been on his side. Never.

He got the sudden feeling of being followed when he felt a prickle in his spine. He turned around to find her there – the mage from Starkhaven, Anwen. Tristan watched her in confusion, expecting the others to be right behind her, but she was alone, staring shyly beyond him.

"I only need to get to Denerim. I won't bother you," she said in explanation.

_Let her follow you. You know the roads can be dangerous for a woman alone. _Tristan froze. It was _her_ voice… in his head. How could that be? "Brenna?" he asked aloud. It was the first time he'd said her name since he awakened. He hadn't even thought her name, it was too painful.

"No… it's Anwen." Anwen replied, staring at him in concern now.

_Yes, it's me. Don't frighten the poor girl, though. _It was her again. "How is that possible?" he asked.

"I-I…" Anwen tried to stammer out a reply to his nonsense.

It wasn't real. She couldn't be speaking to him. He was losing his mind. No, he was hungry, he was tired. That's all it was. _Are you sure?_

"Yes I'm sure." Tristan hissed. "Why are you doing this? I don't want to hear you like this. Go away. I will come to you when this is over."

"Are you all right?" Anwen asked.

He paused. His thoughts had gone quiet. He regretted telling her to go away. He'd longed to hear her voice again ever since he woke up. _I didn't mean it,_ he thought, _come back. Oh please come back_. But nothing else happened. Perhaps he _was_ just losing his mind. Anwen watched him uncomfortably. He shrugged casually, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Follow me if you like," he said. "I don't own the road."

And so the mage followed him quietly, so quietly he forgot she was even there by the time they caught up to the horse drawn cart. The two horses snorted irritably as an elf tried to get them to move forward. The cart seemed to have run into a hole in the crumbling road, one that had been hidden by the recent new snow fall. A large bearded man with a dead raccoon for a hat pushed the back of the cart. He paused as he saw Tristan come to a halt. The man watched him warily.

_Horses in Ferelden?_ Tristan thought, hoping against his sanity that she would reply again. _I haven't seen that since I was a child. Do you remember them?_ She didn't answer.

"If yer lookin' to take me horses, you'd be wise to think twice," said the bearded man as he stood up straight in response to Tristan's curious look over the horses.

"No," Tristan replied. "But… are you on your way to Denerim?"

"Might be I'm headed that way," the man replied cautiously. "What's it to you stranger?"

"Give me a ride." Tristan said. He could get to Denerim a lot quicker in a cart than he could by walking in his weakened state. He wouldn't admit it, but he was getting quite dizzy the more he walked.

"What's in it fer me? I've got me axe and me assistant already to fend off the wolves and bandits."

"You can never be too cautious on these imperial highways." Tristan made a point of rubbing his sword strap, turning slightly to emphasize Vigilance at his back.

The man scrutinized him closely and then seemed to make up his mind as he nodded. "All right. Me cart's stuck in a hole beneath the blighted snow. Help me push it free, and you got yerself a ride to the capital. And yer woman can come too."

Tristan flinched, believing for a moment that they could see _her_. Then he remembered that Anwen had been following him. Glancing quickly at the mage, he nodded, and then went over to the back of the cart. Raccoon man followed him, setting his large hands on the cart.

"When I say _go_, push like a dragon's breathing fire up yer arse." Raccoon man grinned and then steadied his legs. "Cyril, have ye got the reins?"

The elf named Cyril muttered an agreement and raccoon man cried out, "go", bellowing loudly as he pushed the cart. Tristan threw all his remaining strength into getting the cart free, but soon felt lightheaded. He feared it wouldn't be enough. The horses pulled while they pushed, and the cart creaked, but did not budge.

"Maker's flaming arse!" the man with the raccoon hat grumbled.

Tristan felt like calling upon some sort of spell to get the cart free, but he couldn't trust the strangers to not freak out and do something stupid. Then, Cyril the elf was beside the raccoon man, providing the extra strength needed to finally get the cart free. With one last loud creak, the cart moved from the hole.

"Did ye let the reins go, Cyril?" raccoon man asked rather angrily of his assistant, wiping his brow of cold sweat.

"She's got them." Cyril said, pointing to Anwen, who held the reins, halting the horses from bolting off.

"Ah, you got yerself a bonnie lass there, stranger." The man slapped Tristan hard against the back in what was meant to be a friendly gesture. Tristan staggered forward slightly in his weakness. He shook his head at the raccoon man.

"My brother would not take kindly to that statement," he said, finding his breath.

"Ah-ha, Cyril, the man's running off with his brother's woman!" the man laughed loudly, Cyril joining in half-heartedly. "The bloke won't be chasing you now, would he? The last thing me needs is to fend off an angry, spurned lover man."

Tristan sighed. He should have kept his mouth shut. The man was making way too many assumptions. "You needn't worry about anything, ser."

"Fine, fine. The name's Jasper. No need to be calling me ser. Cyril," Jasper barked. "Get in the back and watch me cargo." Jasper glanced warily at Tristan, clearly not willing to trust him. _Just as well_, Tristan thought, _at this point, I wouldn't trust me either. Too much trust in strangers can land you a sword in the back… or a dagger across the throat_.

Cyril climbed easily into the back of the cart. Tristan lugged himself up unsteadily and plunked down in the corner behind Jasper. Jasper frowned and made a point of fingering his axe at his side. Anwen was helped up into the cart by Cyril and they were on their way, the horses trotting at a quick, but steady pace.

Whatever the cargo Jasper was carrying was, it dug into Tristan's backside painfully. He must have grimaced, for Cyril chuckled.

"Firewood is not the most comfortable thing to sit on," the elf said.

_Firewood… it figures. The Maker sure has a sense of humour_. She had nagged him incessantly about having enough firewood for the winter. Tristan looked up into the sky with narrowed eyes. _Well guess what? I'm not laughing._

"It's been a mighty long and cold winter. And still, 'tis only halfway through the season." Jasper piped in from the front, where he directed the horses. "Me and Cyril, we make a fine profit taking wood to the cities. Enough to get our families through the winter."

"For someone so nervous about taking on strangers in their cart, you are very free with your words." Tristan said with a warning tone, sending Cyril into a nervous titter.

"Aye, and if ye try anything, I told you, I got me axe." Jasper warned back, unfazed by Tristan's words. Then he went on, in a friendly manner. "The wolves were mighty unsettled last night. Cyril here nearly pissed his breeches in fright."

"I did not." Cyril retorted angrily while Jasper laughed.

Tristan was beginning to regret asking for a ride. He just wanted some quiet. Why couldn't they be quiet like Anwen? He sighed and rubbed his temple, his head pounding in pain. On second thought, since they were so friendly, perhaps he could attempt to get some information from them.

"Did you happen to see a man and a woman passing as man and wife travel these roads, oh, I'd say around a week ago?" Tristan asked.

"You mean yerself, lad, and that woman of yours?" Jasper chuckled, leering at Anwen for a second.

"No." Tristan replied darkly, his patience running very thin now.

"Well, ye got to be more specific, then, if you want a straight answer." Jasper said.

Tristan described the assassins in as much detail as he could, all the while grasping for the right words. It was suddenly difficult to think straight and each jolt of the cart rattled his pounding head worse than before. He doubted if they even understood what he was saying. "The man… went by Arn. The woman… Perdita."

After long consideration, Jasper shook his head. "I can't say that I've seen these people."

"Are these people family?" Cyril asked.

Tristan shook his head. "No… just people I've a debt to settle with." _Payable only with their lives…_ He was disappointed that Jasper and Cyril knew nothing, but it was nothing less than he expected. Too much time had passed and he knew it wouldn't be easy catching up with the bastards.

They travelled in silence for a while, his dark mood probably dampening their own spirits, much to Tristan's relief. He didn't think he could take any more of Jasper's prattling. His physical pain must have shown on his face as well, for after some time, Anwen scooted closer to him.

"You… you didn't sleep did you?" she asked in a whisper. He had almost forgotten again that she was there. He didn't really know her, didn't really care to know her, for as soon as he got his revenge… In any case, he'd been too weak to argue, otherwise he would have sent her back to Ronan. He didn't want to drag another person into his troubles – they always paid the price in the end, never him.

He shrugged in response. The truth was, he could not sleep. As much as he wanted to see her again, he was afraid of _what_ he might see. He'd already relived that nightmare once before, he didn't need to see it again. Tristan didn't answer Anwen though. He'd heard bits and pieces of her conversation with Ronan. She was running away, for some reason, and she deserved better. Even in his grief, he could see that.

"You'd be safe with the Dalish," he said. She looked away and they didn't speak for the rest of the journey. Nobody did.

…

It made no sense. Tristan felt like he had left reality the moment he stepped foot in the capital city, slipping away from Jasper, Cyril, and Anwen without a word. Or maybe this was his new reality. His head pounded worse than ever before, his thoughts spun around in a whirlwind of torment, and everything before him was fuzzy. He was surprised he could even put one foot in front of the other.

As he walked through the city, he held onto the walls around him for support. If anyone looked at him at all, they must have thought him drunk. But most looked away, ignoring him completely. That was the way he wanted it. Once, he looked up and thought he saw _her_, standing at a stall in the marketplace. But it was only a woman with the same hair color. She ran off in fright when he attempted to speak to her, turning her around with his shaky hand. On closer, yet still blurry, inspection, the woman looked nothing like _her_.

"Get away from my stall, wretch, you're driving the customers away," an angry merchant scowled at him. He brandished a dagger at his waist. Tristan stumbled forward onto the man's stall, the force of the fall cracking the table in half. People no longer turned a blind eye to him as the merchant began ranting loudly, his words not registering in Tristan's head. He felt the merchant trying to push him up and away and he tried to get up, but his head swam and he fell right back, this time breaking the table in two.

"Stop!" he heard a boy yell. "There's no need to bother the guard, it's only my drunken uncle."

"And who's going to pay for this? You?"

"I am squire to King Alistair. He will take care of it, I promise."

The merchant grumbled loudly.

"I am not… drunk." Tristan muttered. Well, things certainly weren't going as he planned, but when had they ever?

"Don't deny it, uncle." The boy was in his face now. Not really a boy, but a youth, and one he knew, in another life. The youth winked, his green eyes sparkling with humour and concern, a strange mix making for a strange overall expression. The youth gripped his wrist and pulled him up. "Come home now, uncle."

The youth led him away from the marketplace. Tristan was too out of it to brush him off. He might as well have been a drunken uncle. He wondered where the youth was taking him and then halted abruptly as he spotted the chantry behind them.

"I've a bone to pick with… someone…" Tristan wrenched himself free from the youth's surprisingly strong grip. He didn't remember the boy being that strong. But he'd been away long enough for a boy to grow up into a young man.

"What? Wait!" the youth called out in puzzlement as Tristan shuffled forward, the chantry calling to him as much as his taint did around darkspawn. It was not a nice feeling.

…

The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him. The chantry was mainly empty, with just a few lost souls kneeling in the pews, their heads bowed in quiet thought. They stirred at the intrusion, but quickly returned to their devotions.

Tristan's steps echoed as he stumbled down the long, narrow corridor between the rows and rows of pews. It had been ages since he'd been in this chantry and it was nothing like he remembered. The building had been damaged slightly during the Blight, and as he took in the high-ceilinged gracefulness of the space, he noticed easily where it had been repaired, even in his current state.

His head still swam in a dizzy torrent of emotion, pain, and general tiredness. He barely remembered the ruckus he'd caused in the market, hardly even remembered his purpose in Denerim. All he could see was her, and the end he brought to her.

Tristan fell to his knees before the altar of the Maker. He reached for the pouch beneath his tunic and held onto it tightly, holding it up toward the statues lining the rear walls. With a shaky hand he drew open the pouch and withdrew the letter he'd written to her. He brought it to his nose and found that he could still smell her scent on it.

It was in that moment that he felt the taint running through him, sleeping in his blood, readying itself to come out in full force one day. The sweet burning of it reminded him that his time in this world was fleeting, that vengeance must come soon. _Go away_, he thought. _I never wanted to be a Grey Warden_. But he knew it would never go away. It would stay with him forever. His blood disgusted him. It was why he was alone. It was why he felt like a walking curse, tainting everyone he came into contact with.

Tristan slumped forward onto his palms. The letter fell from his hands and slipped away. He couldn't take it anymore.

"You did this!" With a wailing shout he stood up and lashed out at the altar, shoving the podium to the ground. He scattered the holy books to the floor, swiped the candles and incense burners to the corners. He made such a loud clatter and mess of the altar that he didn't notice the other people present run out in fright, in alarm. He tried to knock over a statue of Andraste, but it was too heavy and he too weak so he leaned against it in frustration. When he looked up, a chantry sister was watching him in concern, while another younger one put the flames from the candles out.

"Did I save you, child, so that you could desecrate the Maker's altar?" asked the older sister in a distinctly Orlesian lilt. She walked so soundlessly toward him that it seemed as if she were gliding over the floor.

"I've never seen you before in my life." Tristan replied, catching his breath as the adrenaline rush of destroying the Maker's altar subsided in him.

"Oh, but you have. Granted, it was a long, long time ago." The woman bended the knee to meet him at eye level, lowering her voice in the process as well. "_Vous étiez seulement un bébé_. Tristan was the name I gave you. Amell, your family name."

Tristan could only stare at her in confusion. His loss of control on the altar seemed to have cleared his head somewhat, but he still felt fuzzy and slightly out of it. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"You are safe here. There will be no talk of heroes from me." The woman offered her hand to him, pointedly glancing over her shoulder to where two Templars were watching the exchange closely and with interest. "Come, sit in my study."

Tristan just wanted to leave, but he supposed the Templars would not let him leave without the chantry sister's permission, so he had no choice but to nod and take the hint. It wouldn't do him any good anyway to get locked up, not when he was out for revenge. He accepted the sister's hand and stood up, wavering slightly on his feet. The sister gestured to a door in the back.

"This way, _s'il vous plaît_," she said. With a sigh, he did as she said. He entered her study, a small room with a desk and chair, a cot in the corner, and the walls lined with books. He squinted at some of the titles as he waited for her while she instructed the younger sister. His vision was too blurry to recognize any of them.

The sister came through the door and closed it behind her. "I am Mother Anaïs."

The name meant nothing to him. "Only Mother? Not Revered Mother?"

Mother Anaïs shook her head and smiled. "That title belongs to somebody else."

"How did you know me?" Tristan asked. Nobody else had recognized him so far. To be fair, he was unrecognizable to himself these days.

"I've watched you grow up from a baby to a child. Then, you were taken from the orphanage to the Circle. Then to the Grey Wardens. You've had quite the life, child." Mother Anaïs explained. "It was I that brought you to the orphanage."

Tristan crossed his arms and frowned. "I don't remember you."

"I wouldn't expect you to." Mother Anaïs replied. "I watched from afar. I was not in charge of the orphanage." She went behind her desk and sat in the chair. She studied him with kind eyes, her face lined with age. Then, she began to recite a familiar chant:

_Many are those who wander in sin,_

_Despairing that they are lost forever,_

_But the one who repents, who has faith_

_Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_

_And boasts not, nor gloats_

_Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight_

_In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know_

_The peace of the Maker's benediction._

_The Light shall lead her safely_

_Through the paths of this world, and into the next._

Tristan closed his eyes as she chanted. _The Chant of Light_, he thought. _Redemption_. He'd learned it by rote as a child, drilled into him by the chantry sisters. It came naturally to him, even after many years of not having spoken it. He joined in, impatience underlying his harsh voice.

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._

_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,_

_She should see fire and go towards Light._

_The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,_

_And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker_

_Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword._

Mother Anaïs regarded him in slight amusement. "So you are familiar with the Chant of Light."

"Don't get too excited." Tristan warned, staring back at her defiantly. The words brought no comfort to him as a child, and none now. He wanted to spite the woman for bringing the words up. "I spent many days and nights abed with a chantry sister. She was Orlesian too."

Mother Anaïs frowned with disapproval.

Tristan shrugged. "She was not yet ordained, don't look so shocked."

"Be that as it may… you know the Maker." Mother Anaïs continued, looking eager to change the topic. She folded her hands in thought. "Why did you destroy his altar?"

Tristan considered his words carefully. He wasn't sure how much to tell this woman or if he even wanted to, but her presence was somehow reassuring and calming. His head was clearing the more he talked with her. Finally, he turned to her and answered as honestly as he could. "The Maker shines no light on this wretch, only takes it away. My life has been one long, dreadful, winter…"

"There is light, even in the darkness of winter. All you must do is open your eyes and look around you. The hearth fire, the stars, the laughter in the eyes of a child. Even in the darkest night, the snow reflects the light of the Maker. You must know where to look to find the light."

Tristan shook his head in disbelief. "Perhaps I am blind to light then. I was unwanted as a child. I would have been locked up in the Tower for life if there hadn't been a Blight. My own son is Maker knows where, withheld from me." Tristan paused in thought. _With my luck my son is a demon I'll have to kill one day…if I'm still around._ He slammed his fist onto the desk. "And now, your Maker has taken the only thing that has brought any warmth to my life. I will always be cold without her…"

Realization seemed to dawn on Mother Anaïs as she recoiled slightly from the fist slam. "The chantry sister?"

"No, another. I… I cannot bring myself to say her name." He didn't know why he was speaking to this woman. She was impossibly good at getting him to divulge his feelings. He was starting to resent her.

"You loved her?" Mother Anaïs asked.

"With all my body, mind and soul I loved her." He saw her in his mind, haggling with a customer twice her size and strength in Gwaren. The memory brought a smile to his face, which washed just as hurriedly away as he thought of how much time he could have had with her had he acted sooner on his feelings, and then he thought of how much time was lost to them because of the bastard assassins.

"_Il n'y a que les montagnes qui ne se rencontrent jamais_." Mother Anaïs said with genuine sadness in her eyes. "There are only mountains that never meet."

"Another quote from the Maker?" Tristan asked.

"No, just something fanciful Orlesian women like to say." Mother Anaïs explained with a smile. "We like to think that there are none so distant that fate cannot bring together."

"I find it hard to believe the dead can meet the living."

"The whole point of faith is believing in something greater than yourself, something that maybe you cannot see, touch, or feel. Your faith will carry you to her again."

"I want to believe that…" _and I do, though you would not condone suicide… the only way to get back to her, that or necromancy_… Tristan felt his lids drooping abruptly. He was more tired than he would ever admit.

"Rest here, please. You look tired." Mother Anaïs placed a hand over his own.

Tristan pulled away. "I can't settle. I can't rest." _Not until justice is done_.

"Please try." Mother Anaïs stood up and came over to his side. "Nobody will bother you here, I promise."

Tristan said nothing as Mother Anaïs gently pushed him forward to the cot. It looked so comfortable for something so austere, draped with only a handmade quilt. He found himself sitting on the cot.

"I will be cleaning your mess in the meantime." Mother Anaïs said, not unkindly, and then left the study, closing the door behind her.

Tristan felt the days on the road, the lingering weakness of the poisoning, and the general mess of his head overcoming him, and even though he didn't want to, he curled up on the cot and succumbed to sleep in the Maker's sanctuary.


	17. Chapter 17

SEVENTEEN

The streets of Denerim were covered with a light coating of snow which was not at all white. Ronan wrinkled his nose in disgust at the yellow, brown, and even red colored snow patches. The cold did nothing to stop the stench of rotting garbage lying underneath it all. He never did like this city. At least the marketplace was passably clean. He came to a sudden halt, causing Rhys to run right into him.

"Sorry." Rhys muttered, nervously taking in the sights of the city.

Ronan exhaled loudly. He was in a terribly grouchy mood, ever since Rhys had shaken him awake to tell him that they were gone. They, Tristan _and_ Anwen had run off ahead of them. Ronan had expected as much from his brother, but not from Anwen. He was utterly worried for her, all alone somewhere. He knew she could take care of herself, but there were many dangers lurking in a city like Denerim – thieves, corrupt guardsmen, Templars, and even murderers – all too much for a single woman to fight off. _Maybe she is not even in Denerim_, he thought. But that would be worse, for he wouldn't know where in Ferelden to look for her and he desperately wanted to see her again. The only tracks they'd found after leaving the old inn were those of a cart. Tristan and Anwen were probably hours ahead of them.

In the back of his mind, he wondered what in the world had made her leave. He'd comforted himself by believing Tristan responsible, luring her away for company. But Ronan knew that to be false. Tristan only wanted to be alone, and Anwen had made up her own mind. Ronan knew she was running away from him, he just didn't know why. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

"What do we do now?" Rhys asked, breaking through Ronan's thoughts.

"We'll split up." Ronan replied. "Maybe they're together, maybe not. We'll meet back at the Gnawed Noble Tavern after sundown. Got it?"

"But I don't know where that is and I can't read. I don't know this city." Rhys' eyes darted back and forth nervously and he stood uncomfortably awkward looking.

_Gods, did I look that foolish when I first came here?_ Ronan wondered. "Ask someone for directions."

"But, _lethallin_, they are looking at me strangely." Rhys nodded slightly to a small group of people by a market stall. They weren't actually looking at Rhys; in fact, their attention was completely absorbed by the stall, which was broken in two.

Ronan sighed. "Just act like you belong here and they will ignore you."

"What if… what if they send me to the alienage?" Rhys asked, eyeing the humans around him suspiciously.

Ronan patted him on the back. "Rhys, you'll be fine. All you have to remember is three things when you're in a city: do not go into the back alleys alone, do not pay attention to the beggars, and keep your dagger close. Remember Kirkwall?" Rhys nodded. "Denerim is not as bad as that cesspool. Just calm down and then find Anwen, find Tristan, or find them both, and convince them to go to the tavern. I will do the same and we will meet there, after sundown. But don't hang around in the dark too long. Head to the tavern right away. Got it?"

"Fine." Rhys relented, but still looked a little uncomfortable at the whole prospect of splitting up in the big city.

"I'm off now…" Ronan slowly backed away, making sure Rhys wouldn't suddenly change his mind. When it seemed like Rhys was all right, he turned away and trotted off. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed his cousin wandering the marketplace. He figured Rhys would probably stick to that area, which was just as well, it was the most popular area. For his part, Ronan didn't plan on listening to his own advice. The back alleys were just as important as the main paths, and the beggars, though most of them were lying swindlers, could be useful sources of information. As for the dagger part, well, he had two swords on him, he doubted anyone would challenge him.

Ronan wandered through many streets, through many back alleys, never finding either his brother or Anwen. He wondered where they could be, where he should look for them. He considered asking around if anyone had seen them, but then thought better of it. There were many people in the city, and most people never looked each other in the eye, so however would they know if they had seen one or the other?

Eventually, he found himself in what he assumed to be the alienage for there were many of the People around. They watched him with hungry eyes, shivering under their ratty clothes. In turn he watched them in pity, disgust rising in his throat at their living conditions. Eirlys' dream could only come true too soon for them. He'd parted from her in anger, but more and more he thought of her words, of her invitation, especially after the way his father had treated him, even after Anwen had run off. If she was not a part of the clan, then what was left there for him?

Ronan came upon a large tree, the _Vhenadahl_. Gathered in the square around it were many people, waiting for handouts of some sort. Ronan halted by one of the People.

"What is going on?" he asked.

"The King is handing out blankets," the man replied without glancing in Ronan's direction. "As if that would help us. Sure it'll keep us warm at night, but what we really need is bread."

"Keep your voice down," a woman beside him shushed. "The winter has been long and cold. I could use a warm blanket. My apartment is very drafty. He has promised us bread anyway."

The man snorted in derision and crossed his arms defiantly.

"King Alistair himself is here?" Ronan asked curiously. He tried to see above the many heads in front of him, but to no avail.

"Yes," the woman replied. She glanced at Ronan and he noticed a flicker of surprise run through her as she saw him and noticed his accent for the first time. "What is a Dalish doing here?"

He didn't answer her, he only shoved his way forward through the crowd, ignoring the protestations of those he angered. If the King was here, he might be of some help. Alistair was, after all, a Grey Warden and a great friend of his brother. Ronan only hoped the king would remember him. As he reached the front of the crowd, he spied the king's golden head of hair. He shouted out for Alistair's attention and found himself staring at the tip of a sword.

"_Hey_ yourself. That's the King of Ferelden you're addressing. Have some respect."

Ronan glanced down the sword to see a blonde haired human youth in charge of the sword.

"Your king, boy, not mine." Ronan retorted in anger. Another bigger boy pulled up behind the blonde one, who didn't yet lower his sword. "Is the King using boys as body guards now?" Ronan scoffed.

"Why don't you piss off back to the woods where you belong, knife ear? This here charity is only for the city's knife ears," the bigger boy threatened. A couple of elves behind Ronan made angry mutters at the slur.

"I'm going to speak to the king, and no _boys_ are going to stop me." Ronan said in a low, threatening voice. He narrowed his eyes in a challenge.

The blonde youth nudged the bigger one in the ribs, all the while still holding out the sword in Ronan's face. "Shut up, idiot. I think I know who he is." The youth stared back at Ronan, holding his gaze bravely.

"You know who I am?" Ronan asked, suddenly bewildered and amused by these boys acting like grown men.

The youth tilted his head slightly to the side. "You're Ronan, right?"

"I am…" Ronan agreed. He wondered how the youth knew who he was. Before he could question the boy further, however, Alistair and a rather large man, most likely the real bodyguard, appeared at the side of the boys, having crept up upon them all in their distraction.

"What's going on here, Sammy?" Alistair asked the blonde youth. A faint hint of recognition lighted in his face as his eyes followed the sword's tip to Ronan. "Oh, I know you… Robert was it?"

"Ronan!" Ronan corrected the king just as the youth named Sammy did.

"Right." Alistair replied with an apologetic shrug. He reached over and lowered Sammy's sword. "There's no need for this, is there?" he eyed Ronan suspiciously.

Ronan shook his head. "No. I'm here about…" he paused for a moment, unsure of what to say, and then continued, "… my brother."

Alistair stared at him in confusion for some time. _Great_, Ronan thought, _he doesn't really remember me, does he?_ Then, Alistair's eyes widened in what could only be realization. "Let's go somewhere more private."

Sammy cleared his throat loudly, and looking somewhat cowed, he spoke up. "Actually, your majesty, there is something I've been trying to tell you all afternoon…"

"I don't like that look on your face, but can this wait?" Alistair asked, nodding toward Ronan.

"Well, it actually has to do with him, in a way…" Sammy replied, running a hand nervously through his hair.

"Hold that thought." Alistair said. He turned to his bodyguard and gave orders for his attendants to continue the distribution of the blankets. Then, telling his bodyguard and the other boy to stay behind, he gestured for both Ronan and Sammy to follow him. "Walk with me, please."

"Without your bodyguard?" Ronan asked in surprise as he fell in beside the king and Sammy.

Alistair chuckled. "I can take care of myself. My _bodyguard_ is my wife and my uncle's idea. In any case, my squire here is capable enough. He may not look it, but he's quite the little warrior."

Ronan glanced at the youth, who stared back at him smugly. When they were far enough away from the crowd, Alistair halted their walk.

"Both of you want to say something about Tristan?" Alistair glanced between them with something of pain in his eyes. "I hesitate to ask either of you what it is about. What can someone long dead possibly have to do with me?"

_He doesn't know_, Ronan thought. He wondered what Sammy had to say, so he decided to let the youth go first. "Let him speak first…"

Sammy looked to the ground in shame, shifting nervously on his feet. "Tristan is not dead," he mumbled.

"What?" Alistair asked in confusion. "I could have sworn you just said he was _not_ dead."

"He speaks the truth." Ronan confirmed.

Alistair looked between them in shock. "What is going on?"

"I knew since before I first met you." Sammy admitted to the King. "It was not my secret to tell, and, and I didn't know if you knew, too, so I said nothing at all. Then today I saw him."

"You saw him?" Ronan asked in surprise. "Where is he?"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Alistair said in irritation. He paced around for a long, awkwardly drawn out moment, clutching at his chin in thought. Then finally, he turned back to Sammy. "Where is he? I want to speak to him."

"I was bringing him to you, but then he broke free. He was confused. He didn't even recognize me, I think." Sammy explained defensively.

"Where is he?" Alistair asked again.

"He went to the chantry. I don't know if he's still there."

"Never mind. Let's go see." Alistair said. He set off briskly, leaving Ronan and Sammy to catch up to him.

…

Ronan waited outside of the chantry with Sammy. Alistair insisted on going in alone, and that was just fine with Ronan. He wouldn't feel right walking into the house of the Maker. And perhaps Alistair would be luckier than he had been in convincing Tristan to get a grip on things. Still, he was impatient, for while he waited here maybe Anwen was widening the space between them, or even, the gods forbid, in trouble. He hoped Rhys had run into her.

"You don't look that much like Tristan." Sammy said, leaning against a post and watching him with curiousity. He'd forgotten about the youth in his restless pacing. Ronan halted and then frowned towards the boy.

"Different fathers." Ronan muttered. His brow arched questioningly towards the youth. "How do you know me, anyway? And just who are you?"

Sammy grinned in amusement. "I am Samuel Longshot, squire to the King, and recently of Vigil's Keep."

"Let me guess, the Wardens got annoyed by you and sent you away?" Ronan asked, a smug look covering his face.

"Hardly," Sammy replied without anger. "They finally saw the potential in me and sent me to the best for training."

"I thought the Grey Wardens were the best." Ronan said. His mind wandered to Melisende who could wield two swords with such grace and deadly quickness that he couldn't think of anyone better suited to be named the best.

Sammy shrugged. "They are. Alistair is a Grey Warden, too, in case you've forgotten."

"I haven't." Ronan replied. "Tell me, you didn't answer my question, how in the world did you know who I was back there?"

"Melisende tells me a lot about her adventures. You were featured in one of them. When I saw you, I thought to myself, well, there is only one arrogant Dalish elf with one hand I've ever heard of. And since I had seen the Commander earlier, I thought it could be you, his brother. So I guessed. Lucky guess, eh?"

Ronan narrowed his eyes towards Sammy. He resented being called arrogant by this self-satisfied wannabe man. But he was also surprised; surprised that Melisende had told stories of him. "Melisende told you about me? In that same way you described me?"

Sammy chuckled. "Yes, but you didn't come off as bad as it sounds. She had a lot of respect for you. I mean, you are by all her accounts, a great warrior. I never thought I'd meet you."

Ronan remained quiet, pondering how it was possible that Melisende could tell this youth glorious stories of himself and then slander him to his face. Perhaps he had misunderstood her. Or maybe she was not the person he'd thought she was. Whatever the case was, he found thinking of her did not pain him as it used to.

"How is Melisende?" he found himself asking. Sammy's expression darkened and Ronan found himself nervously anticipating the answer.

"She's… been through a lot lately. Things could be better. I wish I hadn't left her, but…" and here Sammy shrugged and a smirk returned to his face. "… you know you can't argue with her and win, not easily anyway."

Ronan chuckled. "Yes, she certainly is a spitfire."

"Besides, I wanted to be a squire. It sure is better than being a cook's assistant."

Ronan wondered what sort of things Melisende had been through. Did she know that Tristan was alive? Had she made it back to Ferelden safely? He suddenly felt bad for bolting on her, and then as quickly as the thought came, it left. She had pushed him away. She had caused him to wander in the Free Marches. As far as he could tell, there was no reason for him to feel guilty about her recent troubles, whatever they were. Glancing at the chantry, he sighed in impatience – he had enough to worry about already.


	18. Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

"Your majesty!" the young chantry sister looked up at him almost in fright. The broom fell out of her hand but she managed to catch it before it hit the floor. The altar looked like it had gone through some sort of recent chaos and she was obviously tidying it up. Alistair wondered if his friend had something to do with all of this.

"Shall I fetch the Revered Mother?" the chantry sister asked after recovering from her surprise and her clumsy fumbling of the broom.

"That won't be necessary child." An older woman came out of the shadows, clutching a tattered piece of vellum. "Keep at your task. I will see to the King."

"And you are?" Alistair asked as the woman came to a stop in front of him. He was slightly annoyed at her assumptions – perhaps he wanted to speak to the Revered Mother. Who was she to refuse him that?

"I am Mother Anaïs," she replied with a small tilt of the head. "Excuse my presumptions, but I gather that you did not come here to see her holiness. You are looking for your friend, _non_?"

Alistair nodded and then glanced toward the altar. "Did he do that?"

"I am afraid so." Mother Anaïs replied with disappointment.

Alistair sighed. He hoped the Templars had not picked Tristan up. The city guards he could deal with, but the Templars were another story these days. "Is he still here?" he asked hopefully, nervously.

"I have seen him safely to a back room. He is resting." Mother Anaïs said.

Alistair let out his breath in relief. "Thank you Mother," he said. She had kept him from trouble much to Alistair's surprise. However, now that he knew Tristan was in fact there, in the very chantry he was standing in, his anger rose. He couldn't believe the man's gall – to pretend to be dead all this time with not a word to his supposed friend, the King of bloody Ferelden. Alistair stepped forward in haste, but Mother Anaïs held out her hands to halt him momentarily.

"Your friend has been through a lot. Rushing in there in anger will do nobody any good." Mother Anaïs explained. "He is much changed from the Hero we all knew and loved. Whatever it is you have to say to him, remember that you are King. You can show patience and mercy as well as a strong hand. It is a good King who can do both."

"I don't intend to go in there as King." Alistair replied impatiently.

"Then it shall be even harder as friend." Mother Anaïs moved aside and then pointed to the door of the room.

Alistair found himself hesitating. The words of Mother Anaïs had disconcerted him so that now he did not know what to expect. Sammy had said Tristan had not even seemed to recognize him and Tristan had made a mess of the altar. None of that seemed like the Tristan he knew. What exactly had happened to him? He turned to Mother Anaïs with a questioning gaze.

"I will let him explain," she replied, bowing slightly before backing away.

Taking a deep breath, Alistair made his way to the back room. He opened the door a peep and saw nothing but dim candlelight. He pushed the door open further and stepped through the threshold. As his eyes adjusted to the lesser light, he searched the small room for his friend. Alistair found him sleeping on a cot. He was gaunter than Alistair remembered, and maybe a little paler, but it was him.

Funny, ever since he found out the man was alive, not even an hour ago, he was intent on giving him a very large piece of his mind. Now, however, he only felt relief, for he had believed his friend to be gone forever. The world was suddenly a little less dark than it had been. But he wouldn't excuse Tristan so easily for making him feel the way he had.

"I mourned you." Alistair said, even though Tristan was asleep at the moment. "For weeks, months, I walked around in grief thinking my best friend was _dead_. Yet here you are, risen from the dead like nothing ever happened. Do you know what it's like to grieve? To think that somebody you care about is never going to come back?"

Tristan's eyes opened, much to Alistair's surprise, and he pulled himself slowly up into a sitting position. He turned to him with a grimace of pain. "I'm sorry."

Alistair leaned against the desk and crossed his arms sternly. "I don't think a simple apology is going to cut it this time around."

Tristan held his arms spread out in the air. "Take a shot at me if it'll make you feel any better."

Alistair's first instinct was to take Tristan up on his offer. Nothing would be more satisfying than giving his friend a hard punch in the gut for all he'd put him through. But it wouldn't fix anything and in the end, he'd feel bad about it. He straightened up from the table and let out a grumbling sigh. "Violence will not solve anything."

"Then I don't know how to fix this." Tristan said, returning his arms to his side.

Alistair went behind the desk, grabbed the chair, and then plopped it down in front of Tristan, taking a seat on it. "Tell me everything. I want to know why you faked your death, why you left your friends behind, why you turned your back on your duties. I want to know everything."

"I don't even know if I have the answers to all that." Tristan said. There was a sadness around him that Alistair couldn't quite understand. It was as if all the light had been drained from him and his eyes were dull holes whereas before there had always been light in them, even during the toughest times.

"At least try, for the friendship we claim to have." Alistair prodded as kindly as he could.

"I… I don't know where to begin…"

"Then I'll start for you." Alistair said. "Last winter, you returned to Vigil's Keep, ready to resume your command of the Grey Wardens. You were fine. You were your old self, confident and a strong leader. Then you got summoned to the Anderfels. Then there was a shipwreck. Then you were dead. Or so I thought."

Tristan ran a hand through his hair and Alistair thought he'd never answer for the quiet surrounded them for what seemed like long moments.

"Do you remember what happened?" Alistair asked in confusion.

Tristan sighed. "Only too well."

"Then tell me, please."

"First of all, it was not a simple shipwreck. It was a dragon that attacked. A dragon that looked just like Flemeth." Tristan explained.

"Flemeth?" Alistair asked in disbelief. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I didn't say it was Flemeth, only that it looked just like Flemeth did when we _killed_ her. Anyway, I probably should have died from that, and surely would have were it not for the smugglers who found me, recognized me, and intended to ransom me." He paused and stared beyond Alistair almost wistfully.

"Smugglers? Go on." Alistair gestured for him to continue.

"Short story is, I helped them, they let me go, and I realized… I realized that I could truly be free if I wanted to. So I went straight to…" Tristan trailed off into nothing.

Alistair got the feeling that Tristan was leaving out a few things. He decided to let it go and instead prod him on what really mattered here – his supposed death. "You faked your death and went where? So you could be _free_? You know you weren't exactly in shackles before all this happened. You seemed happy about returning to your duties, and then suddenly you weren't anymore. How could you change your mind so quickly?"

"I didn't fake my death." Tristan replied defensively. "I only let people think what they would about my fate. And I did send a messenger to Nathaniel Howe. Maybe I didn't think it through enough. I never do. I am sorry."

_He's not answering me_, Alistair thought in frustration. "So where did you go to be _free_?" he asked.

"I went to her…" Tristan answered, looking away.

"Her? ...Who? ...Morrigan? ...Leliana?" Alistair was growing a little impatient. "Who is _her_?"

"Brenna…" Tristan whispered the name so softly, Alistair had to strain to hear. "I never should have gone to her… You would have liked her."

"What do you mean?" Alistair asked with a sense of foreboding. The look on Tristan's face was full of pain and guilt. Was this what Mother Anaïs had warned him about?

"You asked if I knew what it was like to grieve for someone. I do… only in this case, she won't be coming back from the dead… They came for me and she ended up dead." Tristan covered his face with his hands.

Alistair suddenly felt like a jerk. But he hadn't known what was wrong. He wished Mother Anaïs had told him. He would have been more patient, nicer even. Now he knew why the light had gone out in his friend's eyes. He must have loved Brenna something fierce, to leave his duties for her, to be so… broken.

"Assassins?" Alistair asked. He remembered how much the Grey Wardens were targets now, for all those they'd unintentionally walked over in ending the Blight. He was lucky; he had countless guards, bodyguards and spies watching over him, but Melisende and Tristan? Melisende had been lucky to get away with her life two times already. Three if he counted the darkspawn ambush of this past summer. He wondered who it was this time.

Tristan let his hands fall to his side and nodded. "They knew where I was. They knew I was alive."

"Do you know who sent them?" Alistair asked.

Tristan shook his head. "I was coming to Denerim to try and find a lead."

"And you ended up destroying the Maker's altar. I didn't know you had that in you." Alistair said, in an effort to lighten the mood a little.

"The pain I feel…" Tristan didn't finish his words. Alistair had felt that same pain when he thought Melisende had been lost in the shipwreck, too. He'd loved her so much once, and truthfully, he still did. He knew what Tristan was feeling, but unlike himself, Tristan would not get the same happy ending to this chapter of his life.

"What are you going to do?" Alistair asked. "I will help in any way that I can."

"I need to find Zevran." Tristan said.

"And you think I know where he is?" Alistair asked in slight disbelief. "He and I were not exactly the best of friends."

"But you're king. You have resources."

"Right. However, I'm afraid I haven't seen Zevran since he left court, not long after you first went to Vigil's Keep."

"Did he say where he was going?" Tristan asked, all determination now.

Alistair shrugged. "Antiva? Back to the Crows?

"He could help me if that is true."

"You think the Crows had something to do with it?"

"I don't know." Tristan admitted.

"But if Zevran did go back to the Crows, and the Crows did put a hit on you, wouldn't that make him your enemy? Wouldn't he have at least warned you about something like that?"

"Not unless he thought I was dead. Or they didn't trust him and didn't tell him about it. After all, he failed to kill me once before and became my friend."

"I don't like this." Alistair said. Tristan was set on seeking out a dangerous assassin. Never mind if Zevran had helped them end the Blight, just walking among the Crows was dangerous. For all Zevran's deadly talents, there were a hundred like him. The ones that killed Brenna, they could be equally as dangerous, Crows or not. It was a fool's chase, a hunt that might never end. "I never trusted that elf. I don't think Zevran can help you. Just stay here in Denerim. I'll find something for you to do if you really don't want to be a Grey Warden anymore."

"I have to try something! I vowed vengeance – I can't settle, I can't rest until it is done."

Alistair sighed. "We've been through this before."

"What?"

"During the Blight – Melisende's lust for revenge on Rendon Howe. You saw how it consumed her. She couldn't function properly until we convinced her to put it aside until the time was right, for the good of all, to fight the Blight."

"This is different." Tristan shook his head slightly. He held up his hand and extended only his index finger. "I have only one purpose now."

"Is it really? You just desecrated a chantry for Andraste's sake." Alistair said loudly. "The Templars would have locked you up and I might not have been able to stop them. I'm already in hot water for allowing Anders to be a Grey Warden. After he allegedly killed those Templars and disappeared, the Circle was breathing fire down my neck. You are being unnecessarily reckless."

"Anders was my fault." Tristan said with a grimace of pain. "I should have been there to stop the Templars. Tell the Circle that."

"That wasn't my point, Tristan." Alistair retorted. He was losing his patience and that wouldn't do right now. He took a deep breath to calm himself. "I'm worried about you. You know I'm your friend and I am there for you, but… maybe you don't know that. You run off without telling anyone, you let people assume you are dead. It's too late this time."

"I didn't come to Denerim seeking your help. _You_ found _me_."

"And that is my point. As your friend, I'm here for you, ready and willing to help you always. Yet, you never reach out until it's too late."

Tristan sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just too used to the idea of nobody looks after me better than me…"

"It doesn't have to be that way." Alistair pointed out. "You can let other people help you. During the Blight, you took care of everyone else; you stood up and took the lead when I was terrified to do so. You listened patiently to what everyone had to say. Where is that Tristan now?"

"He's gone… dead with her…"

"It's not so. I refuse to believe that." Alistair shook his head furiously. He scooted closer to Tristan. "Let us help you. You don't have to go on this quest for vengeance."

"I must!" Tristan hissed. "Don't you see? I _failed_ her! I have to make it up to her. If it costs me my life, then it means I will only get to see her sooner. I cannot drag anyone else into my problems. Not anymore. No more will anyone die because they are close to me."

Alistair shook his head sadly, realizing there was nothing he could do to convince his friend to just stay put, to let others help him. "I can see you are deaf to my concerns. My help will be at your disposal, even if I disagree with you, even if I am madder than a rabid dog with you."

"I don't need your help. I am doing this alone. But… don't think I am ungrateful. Don't think I am not happy that you came to see me. Thank you."

"I truly am sorry about what happened." Alistair softened.

Tristan stood up abruptly and grabbed his sword, swinging it over his shoulder for the time being. "I should go. I've wasted enough time here."

Alistair frowned and stood up with him. "If you must." He knew then there was nothing he could do to stop him. But if Alistair was honest with himself, if he were in Tristan's shoes, he would do exactly the same thing.


	19. Chapter 19

NINETEEN

The moment Tristan stepped out of the back room, Mother Anaïs latched onto his arm. He wondered if she had been listening at the doorway the whole time he'd been talking with Alistair. If she had, he couldn't bring himself to be angry with her. He owed her an apology and his thanks.

"I will see the both of you out," she said. In her other hand she waved around a tattered piece of vellum. At first, Tristan paid it no mind as they began the long walk down the rows of pews. However, he felt his cheeks flame up as she began to read it aloud.

"_Brenna, you amaze me. You had every reason to hate me that horrible day at the Dalish camp. Instead, you helped me realize how foolish I was being. Yes, a lot of things went wrong because of me, but a lot of it, too, was out of my hands. You helped me to see that I also did a lot of good, and that I could make amends for the wrongs._"

Tristan halted his steps and snatched the letter away from Mother Anaïs. Pointedly avoiding Alistair's curious gaze in his direction, Tristan shoved the letter back into the leather pouch where it belonged. "You had no business reading that."

"What was that?" Alistair asked.

"It was nothing you need to know about."

Tristan couldn't believe the nerve of Mother Anaïs. That letter was private. It was never meant for anyone else's eyes but to whom it was written. _Her_. The words in it didn't matter anymore. He only kept it because it reminded him of her. She had carried it around with her like it was some sort of good luck talisman, which, in the end, proved to be false.

"Were those your words?" Alistair made an effort to get back into Tristan's line of sight, regarding him with raised brows.

"Forget about it Alistair." Tristan warned.

"You wrote those words to Brenna from your heart." Mother Anaïs looked upon him with kind eyes as she spoke. "They were true then and they are true now. Her death was not your fault. You are a good person who has done a lot of good. Even if she is gone, you can still be that person she made you see that you are." She squeezed his arm once, nodded slightly in his direction, and then began to back away slowly.

Tristan sighed inwardly. They didn't get it. Her death was his fault. "Some of those words remain true Mother Anaïs. I will make amends for the wrongs – for the wrongs done to her. Maker help them when I catch up to the murdering bastards, for I will not show them any mercy whatsoever."

Mother Anaïs remained calm in the face of his anger. "If Brenna wished to see you spend the rest of your life in such a bitter quest for revenge, then I wish you luck."

Tristan tried really hard to regain his calm. Mother Anaïs confirmed by her statement that she had indeed listened to his conversation with Alistair. So they both thought this would lead nowhere, that he would never find the revenge he sought. He didn't care what they thought. It had to be done. For the time being, he put aside his anger with the presumptuous chantry woman.

"Mother Anaïs, I thank you for your help, and I apologize for my outburst against the Maker." Tristan said with an apologetic inclination of his head. "Now, however, I must be on my way."

"_Adieu_, Tristan. You are always welcome in the house of the Maker." With a polite bow to Alistair, Mother Anaïs turned around and returned to the other end of the chantry.

"Well then…" Alistair leaned uncomfortably against a pew, toying with his royal cape. "I probably should be off as well. It would be quite embarrassing if Teagan decided to send an alarm across the city to look for me. I should have been back at the palace quite a while ago. Those boring old nobles will take this as a personal slight on their dignity, I just know it. I might have to dance the Remigold in my small clothes to make things right."

Tristan felt his mouth turn up into a smile. The scene Alistair had painted for him was just too bizarre and hilarious to do otherwise.

"Oh look," Alistair stood up straight and pointed at Tristan's weak smile. "There it is, that famous smirk."

Tristan felt his smile grow further before he wiped it completely off his face in guilt. It didn't feel right to smile or to laugh when she was not around anymore. "Let's go," he said, beginning to make his way down the last few steps out of the chantry.

"You know, it's okay to smile." Alistair said. "She'd want you to be happy."

"But I'm not happy." _And I never will be_. "Let it go, please." He wished people would stop telling him what she would want; they didn't know her, not the way he knew her.

Tristan was relieved when Alistair said nothing more on the matter. The cold air rushed into the chantry as they opened the doors and stepped outside. The sun was beginning its descent, but the brighter light of the outside caused a small period of adjustment in his vision.

"It's about time," Ronan grumbled from the side. Tristan turned in that direction to find both Ronan and Sammy waiting in the cold. He wasn't at all surprised that Ronan had caught up to him, but he was surprised to see Sammy in Denerim. So, he hadn't been seeing or imagining things earlier; Sammy was the youth that had plucked him away from the broken stall. Now that he had gotten some sleep in the chantry, his mind was not as muddled.

Tristan focused his attention on Sammy, impressed by how much one year could change somebody. Last he'd seen him, he was a boy. Now, Sammy stood before him in the bloom of youth, taller, lanky still, but looking confident as a squire. A moment of resentment crossed his mind as he realized he'd miss all the changes his own son went through as he grew up. He pushed those thoughts away quickly and went to muss Sammy's hair, but stopped himself before he could. The boy would be embarrassed, if he weren't already angry with Tristan.

"Sammy," Tristan began. "I must apologize for my behavior earlier. I… wasn't thinking straight. I am grateful for your intervention. That was a cunning move. I am impressed."

Sammy waved his hand, a bashful look overcoming his face, as he sought to deflect the sudden praise. "Ah, it was nothing. Just good timing and a bit of good luck."

"Sometimes that is all you need…" Tristan replied. _Timing and luck; how many times has that made all the difference in my life? How many times could it have made a difference? _He saw her in his mind, crumpling to the floor and bleeding her life out. A minute before that he had hesitated to use a spell. Freezing her and her assailant could have made all the difference. He felt his fists curl up at his side and he welcomed the pain as his fingers dug deeply into his palms.

"Are you okay?" Sammy asked.

Tristan felt a hand come upon his shoulder and twist him around in the other direction, away from the view of the street.

"Stop that glowing thing!" Ronan said with a hint of warning in his voice.

Tristan struggled to find a sense of calm. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something else, to remove the image of her death from his mind. It was seared into his memory, it would never leave him, but he pushed it away, hoping it would stay in the dark recesses of his mind for a little while. His fists uncurled and he wrapped his hands in the edges of his cloak. When he opened his eyes again, they stared at him in curiousity.

"What was that?" Alistair asked.

Tristan shook his head. He didn't really know why that kept happening. He was usually good at controlling his magic, but the glowing fists of fire thing seemed to have a mind of its own. It didn't hurt, it certainly didn't warm him, but in the three times it had happened so far, it always threatened to break free in an uncontrollable maelstrom. "It's nothing."

Alistair continued to stare at him questioningly, but thankfully seemed to let the matter go. "Well, we should go now," he said, turning to Sammy with a nod. Looking to the street, something must have caught his eye, for he frowned. "Oh look, it's Ser Giggles, my bodyguard."

"Bodyguard?" Tristan asked.

"Ser Giggles? Really?" Ronan asked, staring at the big, dour looking man standing not far off. "He looks like the type that if he smiled, it would be hideous."

"_Ser Conall_ is Anora's creature, more meant to spy on me than guard my body, I'm sure of that. Come on, if my uncle didn't push for this as well, I wouldn't endure this sullen bear. I can more than guard myself." Alistair crossed his arms in annoyance and glared at his bodyguard.

"And if that fails, you've always got a couple of boys to watch your back." Ronan chuckled.

"I resent that." Sammy said.

"They're not really your uncles, Alistair. You don't need to listen to them." Tristan said. He always found it odd that Alistair put so much trust into Arl Eamon in particular, especially after the way he had treated him as a child. But, he had to admit, Alistair needed some sort of guidance, and Eamon certainly knew a lot more about running things than anybody else in Alistair's circle.

Alistair shrugged and then waved at his bodyguard. "Ser Giggles, I am coming. Don't laugh yourself silly or you might get a stomach ache," he shouted out. _Ser Giggles_ only stared back, his mouth drawn taut and thin, turned down in a frown, and his brow furrowed so heavily that it looked like he had a caterpillar stuck to it. Alistair turned back to Tristan. "You know, I'm going to break that man into laughter one day, I swear it. As for him being a spy, let's just say I don't give him much to report back about. And besides, it's not like I don't have my own spies hidden among Anora's ladies."

"Sounds like you're learning a thing or two about being a noble." Tristan said.

Alistair gripped Tristan's shoulder. "Some things about being a noble are best left unlearned; things like being an arrogant prig."

"I know someone who would be offended by that remark." Tristan gripped Alistair's arm back in a gesture of friendship. Alistair may be pissed with him, but he always found a way to hide it behind smiles and jests.

Alistair laughed. "Not a word to her, then. In any case, Tristan, take care of yourself. Remember what I said back there – I am here for you. And for Andraste's sake, next time you decide to disappear, send me a letter. That is a royal order, by the way. I will jail you if you disobey."

"I don't doubt it." Tristan managed a sliver of a smile. "Farewell, Alistair."

Alistair let go and then turned to walk away, Sammy following close on the King's heels. He stopped halfway to glance over his shoulder. "See you later," the king stated. Alistair continued on his way and Tristan stood there staring until the King of Ferelden, his squire, and bodyguard disappeared from his view. Alistair made a point of denying Tristan's _farewell_, but Tristan knew in his heart that this would probably be the last time he ever saw the king, for his vengeance would be the end of him, one way or the other.

"So, _brother_, now that you're done flirting with the king, I suggest we get to the Gnawed Noble Tavern before dark. There are a few things I need to discuss with you."

Tristan turned his attention to Ronan, who sat on the edge of the chantry's well with his arms crossed and an air of impatience. Tristan glared back at the lout.

"I'm not discussing anything with you."

"Oh really?" Ronan stood up and drew himself up in front of Tristan. He looked up at him, Ronan being slightly shorter, and narrowed his eyes. "I'd like to know what you did with Anwen, how you managed to convince her to leave with you, what spell you cast on her, and where you put her."

Tristan couldn't help but scoff at his younger brother's insinuations. "You know in your tiny little heart, Ronan, that everything you just said is false. She left of her own accord, probably because she couldn't stand the way you threw yourself at her in the old inn. I don't know how she came to be with you in the first place, but honestly, it's not surprising she left."

He saw the anger rise in Ronan's eyes and his struggle to contain it. "You don't know anything, you big _halla _turd."

"_Boy_, you can go to the tavern if you like. I need to find some assassins and there's a much seedier place for that – the Pearl. Now, get out of my way." Tristan pushed his brother out of the way. He made his way out of the chantry courtyard, eager to find the trail of the assassins. He'd lost more time than he cared to in the chantry. He certainly wasn't going to let Ronan cost him more.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight." Ronan said, falling in beside him, much to his regret. When would everybody get the hint that he wanted to do this alone? That he _needed_ to do this alone?

"Then I warn you now, if you intend on keeping up this charade of pretending to care about what happens to me, on trying to bring me _home_, there will be a time when I won't be afraid to use my magic on you, blood or not."

"I'll be ready then."

"You won't see it coming."

"I will."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"We'll see."

Tristan sighed. If Ronan had to have the last word, so be it. He carried on through the streets of Denerim in silence, letting his younger half-brother follow him, at least for the time being. He had no doubt that he could slip away again and if he had to, he meant what he said; he would use magic to get his point across.

…

When Ronan realized that the Pearl was Denerim's brothel, he cursed under his breath. For some reason, every time he entered into one of those blighted places he was mistaken for one of the workers. He swore by Elgar'nan that if it happened that evening, there would be bloody hell to pay. He was already in the foulest of moods from Tristan's words, from Tristan's refusal to go to the tavern, and from the fact that he hadn't been able to track down Anwen. If it weren't for his mother, he would have knocked Tristan over the head already. _Knock some sense into him_.

Tristan rushed through the entryway, ignoring the woman behind the counter, and halted in the main room. It consisted of a few tables, a bar, and a couple of whores displaying their goods to the customers.

"I was under the impression that assassins were devoted only to the art of killing, not to matters of the flesh." Ronan grumbled. However would they find a lead here? All the customers looked like ragged city workers or sailors and nothing like an assassin.

"Then you haven't heard of Zevran." Tristan replied as he scanned the room.

"Why should I have? He doesn't sound like anybody important."

"He was the Antivan Crow sent to kill the Grey Wardens during the Blight." Tristan moved forward through the slowly growing crowd of people. Now that the day was over, people seemed to feel the need to release some tension. Ronan followed closely, making sure to look as mean as possible, just in case somebody got the wrong idea about him.

"Obviously he failed." Ronan pushed his way past a whore, momentarily losing sight of Tristan, before catching up again. "Did you kill the sucker?"

Tristan came to a stop at a table where a lone man was sitting comfortably stretched out with a drink in hand. The man looked up, slammed his drink onto the table, and with a smile, began gesturing wildly with his hands.

"My friend! What a good day this is to see you returned to the great civilization that is Denerim."

"Cut the crap Leandro." Tristan pulled up a chair from another table and took a seat. Ronan remained standing, eyeing the man named Leandro suspiciously.

"What, no hello?" Leandro asked. He remained smiling even in the face of Tristan's dark look.

"I need to find Zevran. If you know where he is, you need to tell me, now."

Well, that answered Ronan's earlier question. Tristan had not killed the man and now he was looking for the assassin. He felt this Antivan's gaze on him, however, and he glowered at the man in response.

"Who's that?" Leandro asked, nodding towards Ronan.

"My brother."

"Your… brother? Ha." Leandro broke into drunken laughter.

"What the hell is so funny about that, _shem_?" Ronan demanded as his foul mood began to worsen, just as he thought it couldn't get any worse.

"Nothing…" Leandro said through his dying laughter. "I just… you're an elf."

"And you're nothing but a dirty, rotten, Antivan. There's no worse kind of _shem_ in this world." Ronan closed the distance between them slightly and reached for one of his swords instinctively as he lost his patience. "Answer the man's question or by the gods, I swear…"

Tristan's arm shot out and stopped Ronan from getting any closer to Leandro. "Ronan, shut up, and Leandro, do as he says."

Leandro leaned back in his chair and linked his hands together. "What is with all the hostility? And why do you look like shit, friend?"

Ronan found himself muttering in Dalish, wondering how Tristan knew this annoying man and what he hoped to glean from him. Tristan must have sensed his impatience and Ronan found himself being pushed back by the arm that had moments ago stopped him from losing control. Ronan let out a deep breath in hopes of gaining back some calm. For now, he would be quiet. Seemingly satisfied, Tristan turned his attention back to Leandro.

"I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I cannot do anything until the murdering bastards pay for what they did." Tristan said.

"Who…" Leandro leaned forward in astonishment. "Who was murdered?"

"His woman, Brenna." Ronan spat out. His effort at remaining quiet was doomed for failure sooner than later. He might as well have ended it sooner, if it meant running things along at a speedy pace. Anwen was still out there – it was getting dark – he had to find her. And, he had to meet Rhys before he died of fright.

"I didn't know. I'm sorry." Leandro spoke with surprising kindness.

"How could you have known?" Tristan looked at Leandro with suspicion. "They came for me, but she ended up dead. Only a handful of people knew I was alive."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Leandro held his hands up, "you think I had something to with this? I made you a promise, and I am a man of my word."

"How do I really know? Because you were raised by my father, I trusted you. But my father was a coward and a liar. So maybe I was wrong to put my trust in you."

Ronan wasn't sure what just came out of his brother's mouth. _Did he just say _his father_ raised Leandro? _How could that be? Leandro looked to be around the same age as Tristan, perhaps slightly older. Tristan's father died when he was a baby. While Ronan was confused, he couldn't say the same for Leandro, who positively fumed at Tristan's remark.

"Who the fuck do you think you are? You didn't know Red. He was a good man. And I have nothing to do with whatever you are accusing me of."

"I know he was a smuggler, the scum of the earth, and so were you. He was a blood mage and he made my mother think he was dead. He never came back for her or for me." Tristan emphasized every point with a finger to the table top.

"Wait, what?" Ronan was so confused now. _Tristan's father faked his death?_

"That's enough." Leandro said with force. "Everyone makes mistakes. I don't know where you get off accusing _me_ of _murder_… maybe you're just not right in the head and full of grief, so I'll forget everything you just said. Yes, I knew you were alive, but I didn't know where you were all this time. And you're welcome – I did what you asked and went to Vigil's Keep to let Nathaniel Howe know of your situation. So, my _dear friend_, I am not the only one who knew the truth. Not by a long shot."

"You'd have me believe Nathaniel Howe had something to do with this?" Tristan asked in doubt.

"I'd not have you believe anything. I'm just stating the facts… though I heard Howe's father was a particularly cruel bastard. But the other Wardens know, too. Not to mention the whole Black Plunder knows the truth. And who knows who else might have seen you. Maybe it wasn't as big a secret as you thought."

"Tell me which Wardens know."

Leandro leaned back with a sigh. "The pretty, feisty one, Melisende; the cute but deadly dwarf, Sigrun; and the orphan boy, Sammy. As far as I know anyway."

Tristan seemed to get lost in his thoughts for a moment. Surely, he wasn't thinking that his own Wardens could be responsible for this? Ronan had a hard enough time wrapping his head around what he'd just heard that he couldn't believe that to be the case.

"Did he say your father is alive?" Ronan asked, unable to keep it in any longer.

Tristan glanced back over his shoulder toward Ronan. "Was. He _was_ alive."

That didn't do anything to clarify Ronan's thoughts. Everybody was alive at some point, or else they never existed in the first place.

"Look, I'm sorry. I wish I could help you. I've heard of Zevran, the Antivan Crow, but I've never crossed paths with the man. Just because I am Antivan, it doesn't mean I automatically know everyone in Antiva. Besides," here Leandro shrugged, "I've never actually stepped foot in my homeland."

"Then how could you call yourself Antivan?" Ronan asked in a mocking tone.

"The same way you call yourself Dalish. It's in my blood, the language and culture taught to me by my mother." Leandro smiled back smugly.

Ronan narrowed his eyes and bit his lip. The man had a point, he couldn't argue there. He'd never been to the Dales, but that didn't mean he wasn't Dalish.

Tristan stood up abruptly, the chair making a loud scraping noise, even among the cacophony of the brothel. "If you can't be of any help, then I guess my time here is done."

"Wait." It was Leandro's turn to stand up, though he did so swaying, the drink catching up to him. "Let me ask you this: is revenge really worth it? You saw what happened to Red…" Leandro paused, grimacing in pain. "Perhaps you should just wait, let it go for now. Once they found they have failed in killing you, they may try again, and this time you will be ready for them. You know how delicate failure is to an assassin."

Tristan shook his head. "And be a sitting duck for the rest of my life? No, I will take it to them, and no, I will not just let it go."

"Then _suerte_, luck be with you. If it was the Crows responsible for this, you will need it." Leandro extended his hand over the table. "Truce?"

Ronan caught a flicker of hesitation within his brother before Tristan accepted the hand. "It's a truce, Leandro. I apologize for my words."

"_Icuídate_, Tristan."

"I know how to deal with birds." With those words, Tristan broke free, inclined his head to Leandro and then turned away to dig his way through the now thicker crowd in the brothel. Ronan followed hotly on his heels, knowing Tristan was unlikely to stop and wait for him should they get separated. When they reached the outside, Tristan paused in the dark street, his breath coming out fast in visible white puffs.

"You're just a bag of secrets, _brother_, aren't you?" Ronan circled Tristan, intent on finding out more about what was said inside the Pearl. "Like father, like son, eh?"

Tristan straightened and stared back at Ronan defensively. "I am nothing like my father."

"Oh no? You said he faked his death. Doesn't that sound familiar?"

"It's not the same. I came back."

"Only because somebody found you." Ronan caught the flicker of pain those words brought to Tristan, yet he would not spare the man's feelings by stopping now. "Would you have returned to the living had that not happened?"

"Eventually."

Ronan stopped circling his brother. "And your father, he never came back? How did you find him, if you thought him dead?"

"It was all by chance."

"And if you never found him, _by chance_, then he would have let you, let mother, continue on believing that he had died all those years ago?"

"I don't know." Tristan hissed. "What do you want from me, Ronan?"

He didn't know how to answer that. There were many things he wanted from him at this moment. He wanted to know more about this cowardly father who faked his death and left behind his family to become a blood mage smuggler. He wanted to know why Tristan seemed to be following in the man's footsteps. He wanted to know why Tristan was seeking out an Antivan Crow named Zevran. But most of all, he wanted Tristan to pause this search for the assassins and to come back to the Gnawed Noble Tavern with him. But he knew he would get no answers and that Tristan would not rest.

Honestly, it was admirable and frankly only expected to seek vengeance for the murder of a loved one. It was admirable that Tristan would not wait around for them to come for him but rather take it to them. It's what Ronan would do were he in the same situation. _Maybe_, Ronan thought, _we aren't so different after all_. Yet, Ronan had promised his mother he would either bring Tristan home or make sure he didn't do anything stupid. At the moment, that meant getting Tristan back to the tavern for some food and rest.

"Come to the tavern with me." Ronan finally said.

"I don't need you, you clearly don't want to be here, so go away to your tavern, and we'll all be happy." Tristan replied.

Ronan crossed his arms and stood his ground. "Not mother."

"She's better off without me."

"That's what I keep saying, but…"

"Then go." Tristan said before Ronan could finish what he was saying.

As a last resort, Ronan took hold of Tristan's arm and looked at him with all the kindness and compassion he could muster at that moment, which wasn't that much for Tristan was really getting on his nerves. "I promised her I'd see you home, I intend to keep that promise."

"Only problem is, I have no home. So go away."

"Well, she knew you'd say that. You're so predictable. So I made a second promise to her. Since you seem intent on revenge, then I'll lend you my aid. I keep my promises."

"I don't need or want your help."

"Bah," Ronan waved his hand in submission. There was no arguing with this man. But Ronan wasn't one to back down so easily either. "Just give me time to fetch Rhys and find Anwen and we'll continue this wild goose chase."

"It is not a wild goose chase. Do what you want. I'll not wait for you." Tristan stalked off into the shadows without a look back.

"Son of a… where are you going next?" Ronan called out. He didn't expect for an answer to come calling back through the dark, therefore he was shocked that one actually came.

"If I am so _predictable_, then you'll know where to find me."

Grumbling to himself, Ronan walked away in the opposite direction. If the choice was following his brother or finding Anwen, he'd rather find Anwen.

_Sorry, mamae. Tristan will just have to wait_.


	20. Chapter 20

TWENTY

Anwen could not believe what was happening. She was alone among a crowd of strangers and truth be told, she was terrified. One time in her life, she had preferred solitude, but everything had changed. Solitude did not bring her the relief it once did. And so she did the only thing she knew how to do in situations like this – she walked around, staring at her feet.

She could remember the shoes she wore as a child, when she was still wandering the Free Marches with her mother. They were made of the softest leather, shaped like slippers, a faded blue color, so comfortable it was like walking on clouds, so perfectly worn in, and even though the left foot had a hole that made her big toe stick out rather awkwardly, she cried when the Circle took them away and gave her standard issue shoes. Those shoes were ugly and gave her nothing but blisters for the first few days, intensifying her confusion, her sadness at being placed in that horrible prison. Now she was wearing a pair of Dalish boots made of cured leather, dyed to a forest green color, and rather soft on the inside and very warm too. At least they were something new to memorize.

At first, Anwen managed to avoid running into anyone, but when she eventually made her way into the more occupied areas of Denerim, she found her strategy of keeping her eyes downcast completely ruined. Anwen had to look up now and her heart raced, her palms broke into a sweat each time somebody brushed against her. It had been some time since she was in a city, alone, and she, perhaps foolishly, expected a dagger in her back at any moment.

The day was growing late. The crowds were thinning out as darkness crept upon the city. Anwen still had no idea what to do, still could not believe she had run off. From the corner of her eye she spotted a pair of Templars. She felt a stabbing fear pierce her heart and run a course through her blood. She backed away into a shadowy corner, and her hands shook.

_This is not like when I escaped Starkhaven_, Anwen thought. _My phylactery was destroyed in the fire. The Gallows in Kirkwall made a new one, and it still exists_. She wrung her hands in her cloak in an effort to make them stop shaking. She barely dared to breathe until she heard the heavy steps of the Templars carry past and away from her. When she could no longer hear them, she let out a shuddering breath.

_This is stupid_. She didn't know what to do anymore. Anwen had briefly considered returning to the Free Marches, to seek out Vance and ask his forgiveness for her part in Ty's death. When she made her way to the docks, however, she found that most ships were staying anchored for the time being.

_It's just as well, that would have been the most foolish thing I could do_. Even if Vance's anger had calmed, she doubted he'd want her around. She was nothing but a reminder of his brother's terrible death at the hands of a Templar. Perhaps the others would be kinder, but in the end, Anwen knew Fritz and Chug's loyalty rested with Vance. She would have been easier to track down in the Free Marches, too. Ty's sacrifice would be for nothing if she were caught again.

_You'd be safe with the Dalish_. They were Tristan's words to her, and they were also her own, most logical thoughts. However rational that was, she wasn't sure if that was what she really wanted. Ronan had made her feel at home among the Dalish, in the beginning. Now… now she couldn't look at him the same way. She was still hurt by him and Eirlys, though she had to admit, some of the hurt had subsided after the night in the inn.

_How could he be so kind to me, yet have done that behind my back? _Anwen tried to rationalize the whole situation – Ronan was a man, they were lusty creatures, she supposed. She'd only ever known one man in that way, and it wasn't by choice. So, maybe she'd gotten a little scared when Ronan had gotten close to her in the old inn. He seemed to care about her in the same way he did before Eirlys. Perhaps she was being silly. She probably shouldn't have run away. But she was so confused.

Anwen shivered in the dark alleyway. She remembered how Ronan put his arm around her and she imagined she could still feel the warmth it brought to her. It felt good to be touched like that, much better than being alone.

_I have to get out of here_. She peeped around the corner of the street, making sure there wasn't any more Templars around before making her way out of the shadows. She passed a magic emporium and briefly considered seeking shelter there, but then thought better of it, for surely Templars watched a place like that closely. So she continued on her way, the sign of a tavern catching her eye.

_Oh, why not?_ She slipped in through the door just as it opened and somebody left. The warmth of the room was an instant welcome relief from the cold, even if it gave her the sniffles as her nose thawed out. She glanced shyly around the room, hoping not to be noticed. The last thing she needed was to be mistaken for a servant. Humans tended to do that to her when she was out in the world. And so she kept her hood up.

Anwen spied an empty bench and went over to sit on it. She wondered if she should order a drink or something, in case they tried to throw her out for loitering. As she searched the room for a way to order, she caught sight of a familiar set of shoulders, hunched over a table across the room. Rhys sat alone, nervously eyeing anyone who came near him. Curious about this, Anwen found herself making her way over to him. She sat in front of him and as he looked up at her, his eyes opened wide in surprise and relief.

"Oh Mythal be praised." Rhys said. Anwen had to admit, she felt very relieved herself to set eyes upon a friendly face. But that relief turned to worry with Rhys' next words. "Is Ronan with you?"

"N-No." Anwen shook her head.

"Elgar'nan's balls. I wanted to be away from here. The humans give me dirty looks, like I'm about to steal something any second." Rhys frowned toward the bartender, who was indeed watching him closely. Perhaps it was only because Rhys had not ordered a drink. "Anyway, I hope nothing is wrong with Ronan."

"Why would you think that?" Anwen asked. A tightness in her chest gripped her hard.

"We were supposed to meet here, before dark. We were searching for you and Tristan. As you can see, it is dark now, and he's not here."

Anwen found her hands shaking again. She shoved them in her lap, where Rhys would not see them. If anything happened to Ronan because he went after her… she would… she would just die. She already had Ty on her conscience, she couldn't have another.

"Why did you leave?" Rhys asked, in what sounded to Anwen like an accusation.

_Oh Maker, he blames me for this, and he's right_. Anwen lifted her shoulder and looked away over it. She couldn't stand to be the cause of something terrible yet again.

"He really likes you, you know. I had to put up with his grumbling all the way here." Rhys said.

"I'm sorry…" Anwen faced him again and though her head faced down, her eyes looked up under her lids.

"You two just need to give in to your feelings already."

_Rhys believes Ronan likes me, that he has feelings for me. _Anwen didn't believe that. "He couldn't have told you all that."

"No," Rhys admitted with a shrug. "You know how he is. But I know my cousin. He never got so worked up about a girl before, not like this."

Anwen could feel a blush creeping upon her face. Anger soon replaced her embarrassment as she thought of another _girl_. "Not even Eirlys?"

"Eirlys? What has this got to do with her?"

Rhys didn't know then. Well, Anwen would tell him the truth. "I… I saw them _together_." Maker, it was so hard to say it.

Rhys didn't even look surprised, but he sat in quiet thought before answering. "I can't speak for Ronan's actions. He's always been one to act in the moment without thought of consequences. But I do know that he's been very insufferable since you've been avoiding him. As for Eirlys, she is gone and I doubt she'll ever return. You should really talk to him. It's you that he wants, I'm certain."

"I… I don't know what to say. I… I don't know how to give in."

"To give in, you need to give up fighting it."

"That doesn't make very much sense Rhys. How am I supposed to do anything if Ronan is in trouble, if he never returns?" Anwen felt her voice giving out; she was losing control of her emotions. She couldn't bear to have another death on her conscience. Especially not Ronan. She wasn't worth it. Why was it happening again?

"Anwen," Rhys said in concern. "He's just late. It was foolish of me to be anxious. He is a great warrior and he can take care of himself. He has his grandfather's sword back, too, that will bring him courage. Don't worry about him, he will show up."

Anwen turned her eyes to Rhys, grateful for his reassurance. She hoped what Rhys said was true, that the sword would bring Ronan courage, because it had brought him only grief since she'd known him, since she unwittingly lured him to Vance's campfire by stealing it. Perhaps it was her that had tainted it in the first place…

"Should we wait for him, go look for him?" she asked in an effort to stop her mind from thinking dark thoughts. She rubbed her eyes clean of the frantic tears that had formed there, but had thankfully not spilled out in front of Rhys.

"So, you're coming back?" Rhys asked with one brow arched.

She nodded, even though she still wasn't quite sure about her future.

"That will make more than Ronan happy. You've been a good addition to our clan. It is not often that the clan welcomes an Elvhen born of a city. Little Tesni is awestruck around you."

"Many things are awe inspiring to a toddler, but, thank you Rhys."

Rhys shrugged, looking shy for the first time since she'd met him. This caused Anwen to let out a little laugh. Soon enough, Rhys was laughing too.

"Your concern for me is touching." Ronan plopped down beside Rhys, appearing before them as if he had never been further than the back of the room. He looked as annoyed as ever, but even so, Anwen found herself looking away as a blush crept upon her. Her worry had been for nothing and she found she could breathe so much easier now than an instant ago.

"Actually…" Rhys began, "we _were_ quite worried about you."

Anwen recovered herself and met Ronan's gaze. Beneath his irritation, there was something else… worry, relief.

"And I was worried about you…" Ronan's eyes lingered on Anwen for an impossibly long moment before turning to Rhys. "… the both of you. Now, can we just pretend that everything is just fine between all of us?"

"I don't think that's a good idea." Rhys said.

"Work with me here, please." Ronan said with a half sigh. "We don't have very much time. If we are serious and willing to help Tristan, we have to decide now. There can be nothing else on the table for the time being. I found him and he's worse off than I thought. He intends to hunt down these murderers on his own, yet he won't even eat or rest. If we leave now, we may be able to catch up with him."

"I miss my family, but I know Eleri would understand. Brenna was a good woman. She was well loved by the clan during the time she spent there, even if she was human. I will lend my aid in bringing justice to her murderers." Rhys said.

"Are you sure, Rhys? There's more to this. Tristan doesn't even know who sent the assassins, they could be Crows. _Antivan Crows_. They are dangerous. And if it turns out it wasn't them, then this could turn into a very long, very useless, and perhaps a never-ending hunt." Ronan spoke almost as if he was trying to convince himself that this was a good idea.

Rhys looked unsure of his earlier firm answer. "I will follow as long as it makes sense."

"I'm not sure it even makes sense now." Ronan shook his head. "But it is good to know I can count on you _lethallin_." He turned back to Anwen. "And you?"

Anwen hesitated. Her plan had been to run away from Ronan and now all she wanted to do was follow him. They needed to talk about so many things and if she turned around and ran she would never get that chance. She needed to know how he truly felt. "I will continue with you."

Ronan slumped back. "It is already dangerous for you to be out."

"And if I continue alone, it is even more so." Anwen pointed out.

"Well then, if that's truly what you want, we should be off." Ronan said as he stood up. "I told you we don't have much time before Tristan completely disappears from trace."

"Where do you think he went?" Rhys asked.

"All I know is that he was set on finding some Antivan named Zevran. He also had this weird look on his face when the Grey Wardens were mentioned. So either he is off to Antiva or possibly to Vigil's Keep." Ronan's face turned grim. "Neither are places I'd like to go to…"

"I went to the docks," Anwen chimed in, "most ships are not sailing any time soon. Too much ice has built up in the harbor."

"You were going to…" _sail away?_ Ronan looked to her in surprise. "Never mind. That just means we can forget about Antiva for now."

"Vigil's Keep then?" Rhys gripped his cousin firmly on the shoulder. "It's a good thing you know the way there."

"Yes, it is…" Ronan's face darkened. He walked over to the bar and caught the attention of the bartender. "Some rum for the road."

"What's wrong with Vigil's Keep for him to do that?" Anwen whispered to Rhys. Rhys shrugged in response.

"Since when ye be serving savages at the tavern?"

Anwen winced as a patron standing by the door complained loudly. Calling Ronan a savage was not the smartest thing the man could have done. But to her amazement, when Ronan got what he wanted he stalked towards the tavern's door and took a swig from the bottle, ignoring the man completely. To her amazement, it was Rhys who reacted to the man, punching the man square in the face as they passed near him, wiping the condescending sneer from the man's face.

Ronan took another mouthful of the rum, watching Rhys in astonishment. "_Lethallin_, I am impressed… now, run faster than you've ever run in your life." He opened the door, gesturing for them to get out. Anwen took one look over her shoulder and saw the angry stares of a few of the patrons.

"We've, rather unfortunately, no time for a brawl…" Ronan grinned, pushed them through to the outside, and threw the bottle of rum onto the tavern floor in the hopes of slowing down their pursuers.

…

"Rum, rum, bottle of rum…" Melisende rummaged through her pack, feeling around for her brand new bottle. She found it, pulled it out, and rubbed it lovingly before grinning at Oghren. "It's time for some fun."

She heard a long sigh beside her. "Are you two really going to do this?" Lina asked in disbelief.

"Of course." Melisende replied taking a swig of the rum. It felt like honey as it went down her throat. "Why wouldn't we?"

"Because Nathaniel told us to be on guard." Lina said. She poked at their fire with a stick, turning around a log.

They were halfway between Amaranthine and Denerim, in almost the exact same spot that Melisende, Sigrun, and Leandro had been ambushed by darkspawn in the summer. Melisende knew she should just do as Nathaniel said, and be on guard, but frankly, it was time to make new memories of this blighted area. Or, better even, drink herself to the point of not remembering _anything_.

Oghren snorted as Melisende handed him the bottle. "Getting sloshed doesn't mean we won't be on guard too." He took a long gulp.

"Come on, Lina, have some fun." Melisende took the bottle back from Oghren and held it out to Lina. Lina was new to this Grey Warden business, only taking the Joining in the autumn. Melisende smiled in reassurance. "There are no darkspawn around. You'd feel it, trust me. Let the rum warm you."

Lina sighed again, but grudgingly swiped the bottle from Melisende to take her own share. "I know why you're really doing this."

"Really? Why is that?" Melisende asked. Lina was fun, most of the time, but sometimes she got too serious when all Melisende wanted to do was forget. She gestured for Lina to hand her back the bottle of rum.

"Nathaniel…" Lina began, but Melisende would not let her finish. She grabbed the bottle and chugged.

"I could care less about what Nathaniel does." Melisende said, wiping her chin of some spilt rum.

Oghren snorted again. "That's what you say. Mage girl is right, if she was about to say that you are getting drunk so you don't have to think about what Nathaniel and Velanna are doing, all alone, in the cold, to check out that _mysterious cave_." Oghren laughed.

"You're a jerk Oghren." Melisende said, refusing to hand him the bottle of rum. She took another long swig. "I'm way past caring." She turned her gaze away from Oghren, to try and hide the truth from him. But it was hopeless, he already knew. Even Lina, who hadn't known her for very long, seemed to know her best of all. She did care what Nathaniel and Velanna were doing. Agreeing with Nathaniel to be friends, _in time_, was harder than she thought it'd be. The more she saw him getting closer to Velanna, the more she wanted him back.

"They could fuck all night long, I don't give a shit," Melisende hissed. She had meant to sound strong, but it came out weak and halfhearted.

"Your rare use of curse words in this situation would say otherwise." Oghren pointed out. "Now hand me the damn rum, Cousland."

Melisende frowned, put the bottle to her lips, and finished off the rum. She wasn't even tipsy. _Damn it_. She'd wanted to be drunk, just like Oghren had said, so she wouldn't have to think of Nathaniel and Velanna. She tossed the bottle at Oghren angrily. He caught it, shook it, found out it was empty, and tossed it onto the ground. Mumbling to himself, he lay down against his pack and closed his eyes.

"Mel…" Lina said, casting Melisende a concerned look. She shuffled closer to Melisende and leaned in close proximity. "Don't worry. Madoc is with them. And Velanna seems to me to be one of those elves… you know, the ones who can't stand humans. Oghren is just playing with your head."

Melisende bunched her brows together in annoyance. "Madoc is a very deep sleeper. It takes a horn and hard shove to wake him. And Velanna… never mind." _Ronan was one of those elves… that didn't stop him from lying with me…_

Lina leaned back and shrugged. "I thought it didn't matter to you what happened."

"It doesn't."

"Then don't think of it."

"I'm not." Melisende hissed, perhaps a little too harshly for Lina was only trying to be helpful. But she was annoyed at everything. "Everyone else is though. Just go to sleep, Lina. I'll keep watch."

_There's no way I can sleep, anyway, with that image in my head. Nathaniel and Velanna in a cave, all alone, in the cold, with only each other for warmth. Damn you Oghren._


	21. Chapter 21

TWENTY-ONE

He didn't know how long he'd been walking, how much time had passed, but it was dark again. Winter was always so damn dark, yet Tristan reckoned he was about halfway to Amaranthine by now. That was when he started to feel a pull. The taint within drew him to them. But it was Melisende's that called out the strongest. They took the Joining together. She was like a sister to him once. Now, he wasn't so sure.

Tristan remained in the shadows, observing the scene before him. The Grey Wardens had put up a sort of semi-tent, two poles holding up a leather canvas to keep away the wind, the worst of the winter elements. He noticed Oghren sleeping under it, snoring loudly, and somebody else he did not know. But it was Melisende he was really interested in.

She sat on a log, her elbows on her knees, her hands held bare in front of her. Her gloves lay discarded at her feet, forgotten, as she stared mesmerized at her palms. The fire blazed in front of her, shining a flickering light onto her face. Her expression was hard to read. It put Tristan in mind of sorrow, but maybe he was only projecting what he felt onto her. The spell was broken as he brushed against a branch and it whipped back into place, causing a loud snapping sound. She became as alert as a bloodhound, standing up quickly and sensing for danger around her.

Tristan realized he would have to reveal himself, before she woke the others, before she decided to use her swords blindly. With that thought, it was almost as if Melisende knew what he was thinking, for she gathered her swords in front of her, looking straight at him, though she couldn't know it was him.

"I can feel you, creature. Whatever you are, show yourself," she warned in a loud whisper.

He stepped forward slowly until he reached the edge of the fire's light. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light.

"You?" Melisende asked with a shake of her head. She held her swords up still, pointed in his direction. She must have been holding her breath, for she let it out in a barely audible lament. "I thought you were a darkspawn – I never expected you."

Tristan closed the distance between them, yet he made sure to stay far away enough from her that she couldn't gut him with her swords. He knew that if Alistair had been angry with him, then Melisende surely would be. She didn't often fly into a rage, but when she did, it was scary, and best to be avoided altogether if possible.

They stood staring at one another for a moment. She was bleary-eyed, and a little unsteady on her feet, but she didn't back down. Tristan was unsure of what to say, yet he needed to speak, to prove to her that he was real, for she seemed to be in disbelief.

"I felt your presence in the area…" Tristan finally said, breaking the silence.

"So, what? You thought you'd stop by and say _hello_?" She lowered one sword as she said this, shaking the other accusingly in his direction. Her voice cracked with emotion. "Why are you here, Tristan?"

He remained quiet while she circled him, turning around with her, locking his eyes with her own. She was angry with him, it was plain for him to see, but there was also hurt in her eyes. His heart twisted in guilt for the pain he'd caused her. He couldn't find his tongue to answer her. No words were sufficient enough to ease anything for the both of them.

Melisende halted abruptly, twirled her swords around and planted them into the cold, hard ground. She approached him warily, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. She reached out a hand and touched his face lightly and her features softened.

"I didn't want to believe it – believe that you would abandon us… but here you are, alive, just like it was said."

To his surprise, she pulled him close into an embrace. She was always too good a friend for him, more than he ever deserved. He put his arm around her and rested his chin above her head. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"You don't know how much I want to kill you right now…" she said against him.

_You don't know how much I would welcome that…_

Melisende broke free and looked to him with a grin on her face. "Why is it so damned hard to stay angry with you? The moment I see you, I want to forget about all you've done to make me angry."

Tristan lifted a shoulder. "I certainly don't deserve that kind of easy forgiveness."

"I don't know what you were thinking. You put me in such an awkward position with the other Wardens, with Sammy, with everyone who asked about you. You basically made me a liar!"

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, it was only meant for Nathaniel to keep that secret."

Melisende frowned. "It does not. And how could you run away again, pretend to be _dead_ this time? Why? Do you hate the Wardens that much? Do you not care about any of us?"

Tristan took a deep breath. He didn't want to have to explain himself, but he knew he owed at least this to Melisende. "I don't hate the Grey Wardens, but it was never what I wanted. I hate _being_ a Grey Warden. It is just another chain around my neck. I wanted to be free, for the first time in my life. Can't you understand that?"

"You sound like Anders," Melisende said. "He made the same excuses when I ran into him."

"You ran into him?"

Melisende nodded. "In Kirkwall, where I ended up after the shipwreck, dragon attack, whatever it was. He feels the same way."

"You see then, how could I be Commander when I felt like that? You never lacked freedom. You don't know what it's like to be a mage. Besides, I thought you were dead; there was nothing left for me with the Wardens. You are all better off without me."

"You're ridiculous to think that." Melisende crossed her arms. "You're a great leader, a _hero_, and we _are_ better off when you are around to lead us."

Tristan ran a hand through his hair. He was starting to feel a little dizzy again and so he took a seat by the fire. "I am not the man I once was."

Melisende took a seat beside him. She gazed sadly at the fire. "And I am not the girl I once was. There must be something wrong, for you to be back."

_She's too polite, too well bred in manners to ask why I look like shit_, he thought. He wasn't ready to talk yet. "You are changed too."

"I did something so very stupid in my grief for you…"

He placed a hand on her shoulder, forcing her to look at him, nodding at her to go on, even though her features were pained. But she shook her head.

"I don't want to talk about it. It's done and buried, six feet under. It won't make any difference to talk about it with you. I'm sorry… All you need to know is that Nathaniel and I are no longer together." She removed his hand. He wondered what she had done, but there was no use in prodding her, or even expressing his surprise at her break up from Nathaniel, for she turned her attention full onto him now. "You were with Brenna all this time, weren't you?"

He flinched at her name. It was painful to hear, painful to speak, even to think of. All it did was bring him back to that dreadful night… "Yes, I was with her."

"So why are you here, alone?" she asked it with concern in her eyes.

Tristan avoided meeting Melisende's gaze. It would be easy to break under her scrutiny. He could have ignored the pull of her blood, continued on his way to Amaranthine; it would have been so easy, really. But he owed her. And there were things she could help him with as well. "There's something I need to know. Have the Wardens been receiving any sort of threats? Any… assassination attempts?"

"The Grey Wardens have not been receiving any threats, but," and here she looked at him in what he could only see as resentment, "we certainly have been targeted without warning."

"Tell me, everything, please."

She looked at him with brow furrowed in irritation, but answered his request nonetheless. "The darkspawn were out for blood this summer past – your blood. In this very area actually. A disciple led a small group, ambushing us, nearly slitting my throat in the process. They mentioned you, were angry that you killed the Mother and let the Architect go free."

Tristan found his anger rising. "You almost died? In my place…"

"I didn't." Melisende shrugged, as if it was no big deal at all.

Darkspawn coming after him, that was nothing new. It was interesting, and it was also frustrating that Melisende had almost died in his stead. He didn't think, however, he could link the assassins to the darkspawn. They were smarter these days, but he didn't think they were smart enough to hire human assassins. "Was there anything else?"

"There was that episode in Orzammar which involved a couple of crazy dwarves, a dark cell, a bit of torture, and Sammy fighting off a bronto, all because we put Bhelen on the throne."

"What?" Tristan regarded her askance. "You speak as if that is nothing. But again, someone else is paying for what I've done…" Could dwarves be behind the assassins? Probably not, for they would most likely send a carta assassin after him.

"Sure, they wanted _you_, but I was right there with you during the Blight."

Tristan shook his head in disbelief. Why did the Maker have to let others pay for what he did? Why did it always seem to happen that way? Nobody but himself deserved to be targeted. He was the one that had made every decision final. "You shouldn't have to pay for all I've done."

"Tristan, why are you here?" Melisende brushed off his concern. She was no longer irritated. A look of worry crossed her face. "What has happened? Has someone come after _you_?"

"Someone has…" Tristan had to look away. Guilt flooded his whole being. Someone else always got caught in the crossfire. He would not let that happen anymore. "I need to catch up with the miscreants, to pay them back for what they have done."

"What have they done?" Melisende turned him toward her, forcing him to look at her. She must have seen the pain in his eyes. "Oh Maker, it's Brenna, isn't it?"

He nodded. "I don't know who sent them, but I will find them, if it is the last thing I do."

Melisende wrapped an arm around him and leaned her head against his shoulder. "Tristan, I am so sorry…"

He considered pushing her away. In the end, however, he let his friend comfort him, but he told himself it was only for her own benefit. Really, though, it felt good to know that she was still there for him.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I need to find them," he replied. "I know Zevran could be of use, if they were sent by the Crows… but I don't know where he is."

"How are you going to find Zevran?"

"Maybe if I say his name enough, he'll just show up?" He didn't know where that came from. He hadn't meant to say something like_ that_… something that could be considered funny…

Melisende emitted a low chuckle. She withdrew her arm from him and pulled back, looking him in the eye again. He could see that her eyes had watered up. She was always such an emotional person. _It must be good_, he thought, _to be able to just let go like that…_

"Tristan…" she ventured. "You don't look well. Come back to Vigil's Keep tomorrow…"

Tristan shook his head. He got the feeling that Melisende was of the same mind as Alistair, as Leandro, as Ronan, even as Mother Anaïs – that this was a wild goose chase, a stupid idea. Well, he didn't care what anyone thought. He was going to avenge her murder, no matter what anyone thought. "I can't. I have to continue."

"Then continue tomorrow…rest here for the night."

Tristan couldn't let the others catch up to him. He needed to do this alone. Zevran was his last hope for answers, if he could find the assassin. He only hoped Zevran wouldn't offer his aid and begin following him around too. He would be off as soon as he could. "Ronan is following me."

"Ronan?" Melisende backed away in surprise. "He's home?"

"Yes…" He didn't like the expression on Melisende's face – anxious, wary. "I need to be off before he catches up. This is something I need to do alone."

"Tristan, I know how you feel. Believe me, I know." Melisende paused, biting her lip in thought. "When my family was murdered, I let revenge take hold of me, of my life. Killing Rendon Howe helped only for a minute. For where was I after that? My family was still dead; they were never going to come back no matter what I did. I'm not going to tell you what you should and shouldn't do, that is for you to decide. You are after all, _free_. Just be careful, please. Don't let the vengeance take you over. Let yourself time to actually grieve."

She wasn't telling him what to do, but it was obvious to Tristan that she felt the same way the others did. He thought she would have understood. How could she begrudge him what she had done herself? He would acknowledge her advice, at the least. "Thank you… I really am sorry for disappearing again, for causing all that trouble for you, for putting your life in danger. That was never my intent. And you have to know, I cannot come back to the Wardens."

"Is that a forever, not coming back to the Wardens I mean?"

"Forever is a strong, impossible word…" He shrugged. If all went well, if he got the revenge, the justice he sought, then _forever_ would indeed be true.

…

Her dreams were the only good thing in her life these days. And such a sweet dream she was having. Melisende was talking to Tristan, clearing the air between them. She never thought to see him again, was faintly happy that she never would, for he had left her, left the order once again. But he apologized to her, gave her an explanation, somewhat of a bullshit explanation she had to admit, but she felt like she understood him. He said she couldn't because she had always been free, but that was not the case. If it weren't for the Blight, she'd have been thrust into a life not of her choosing. While she never dreamt of being a Grey Warden, it was as close to the life of a knight that she had dreamed of as a girl.

And then she began to wake, and Melisende realized the dream had not been as sweet as that. Her eyelids fluttered open. The fire had burnt out and she found herself shivering in the cold morning air. Confusion danced in her mind, causing her a head ache.

_He was really here, wasn't he?_ She looked to where he sat before in the night. The spot was empty. _Maybe he just got up to relieve himself…_

The rest of the dream came back to her. Brenna was dead, murdered by assassins and Tristan was going after them, Tristan who looked so weak from the person he used to be. _No, it wasn't a dream, he was here_.

She stood up, pulling her cloak around her for warmth, and began frantically searching the area. _He couldn't have just left, without saying goodbye, again_. She couldn't find him anywhere, though. Her chest tightened, thinking of him, thinking of what happened to Brenna. It was horrible. And now he was going to walk right into the dragon's den for revenge.

"What's your problem?" Oghren asked from under their makeshift tent. He burped loudly and scratched his beard.

"You saw him too right?" Melisende continued, retaking her seat at the burnt out fire. How could she have fallen asleep again, knowing what happened the last time that she'd done that? He must have been there, or else she would not have fallen asleep.

"Who?" Oghren bunched his brows in annoyance.

"He was here, talking to me." Melisende hoped somebody else had seen him. Maybe it was just a dream. If so, she had put them all in danger, again.

Lina sat up, rubbing her eyes. "I didn't see anyone."

"Tristan!" Melisende said. She looked from Oghren to Lina and back again, hoping one of them had seen, or heard what happened.

"Okay, you're officially bonkers," Oghren said.

Melisende crawled over to him, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him upwards. "Please tell me you saw him."

Oghren held his hands up in surrender. "All I saw was sweet Felsi…"

Melisende let him go. "Ugh, I don't want to hear of your naughty dreams."

Oghren chuckled. "You had too much to drink, Cousland, that's all."

Melisende shook her head. "No, it was real. Maker knows I wouldn't have fallen asleep if he weren't there to keep watch. I've learned my lesson on that front."

"I believe you," Lina said. "Though I slept so deeply that I didn't notice anything, sorry."

Oghren snorted. "Well, it's very comforting to know that he would leave us to the wolves, after all we've been through."

"Not to mention, the fire burned itself out, leaving us in the cold." Lina rubbed her arms as she shivered. She went to the fire, moved the contents around and then effortlessly created a new one from the tips of her fingers.

Oghren chuckled, though to Melisende it sounded half-hearted. "You were quite warm, though too much leg and not enough… _cushy_ for my liking."

Lina stared in horror at Oghren. "Oh Maker… tell me we didn't cuddle…"

"He wasn't… right," Melisende said, still deep in her own thoughts.

"You're making excuses for him again?" Oghren stood up and stretched. After, _the episode_, in Orzammar, all the Grey Wardens knew the truth of Tristan. It was known, but rarely spoken of. Melisende got the feeling that of all the Wardens who knew Tristan (Lina being the only one who didn't), Oghren was the one most miffed by it all. He'd been around longer than the rest, had left a great position in the Ferelden army, left a wife and son, to follow his beloved Commander into the Grey Warden ranks. And then that Commander ditched them without, it seemed at the time, a second thought. It was no wonder he'd turned so bitter, drawn to drink even more so than before.

"No…" _Hell, no_. Melisende shook her head. She wasn't defending Tristan, but neither did she want to upset Oghren further by insisting she had seen Tristan, and that he'd not even bothered to greet the dwarf, before leaving yet again. It was too early for that and so she'd leave it be for the moment. "Just forget about it. Maybe I was just really drunk."

She knew better though. A faint memory of Tristan brushing her hair from her face as she slept flashed through her mind. He had been there. She wasn't a delusional drunk; it hadn't been just a dream. Her heart sank as she remembered that he did say something before leaving.

_Farewell_… _he said farewell. _


	22. Chapter 22

TWENTY-TWO

It was hard not to worry. Siofra's thoughts constantly turned to her sons. She did not know how they were faring out in the world. No matter how busy she tried to make herself, her mind fretted one way or another. Were they together? Were they all right? What was happening? Her hands would shake, her heart would pound uncontrollably and if she happened to be in the middle of the spoken word, her voice would catch in her throat. So after a while, Siofra decided to just remain in the _aravel_.

It was for the best. No one looked upon her there. No one gave her accusing glances. Perhaps she was only imagining it, but she thought Eleri angry with her, for Silas had sent Rhys away with Ronan. It gave Siofra comfort to know Rhys was by her son's side, yet, Eleri needed her husband and Tesni needed her father. Rhys was yet another worry upon her heart.

And Anwen was missing. Nobody knew where she was. Nobody had seen her since the day Ronan and Rhys left. Maybe she was with them. Siofra hoped it were so, for the girl was a fragile thing and better off with the clan than without it. The Templars would do horrible things to the girl if they caught her. It was too much for Siofra to think of.

_Silas and his threats be damned, I should have gone after Tristan_. It was her responsibility. It was her duty as his mother. But she had backed down like a frightened child and let Silas command away. Siofra was glad that Silas remained absent from the _aravel_ on most days, for she could not bear to look upon him. She should not have believed his threats genuine. He would never banish her from the clan.

_Would he?_

The question lingered in her mind night into day before it was replaced by her worry for her sons, for Rhys, for Anwen. The years had made her soft. Motherhood had taken away her carefree attitude. Were she still young, she would never have let Silas threaten her.

Her heart and mind told her, however, that Silas was right to send Ronan in her place. She never would have made it in the outside. It had been too long since she left the forest. Perhaps Silas had only spoken threats in order to convince Ronan to go. In the end, she would know the truth of his strange ways once Ronan returned, with or without Tristan. She prayed for both of them to return, even if it meant her banishment.

A rush of cold air into the _aravel_ snapped her back into the present. Silas entered into the small space with back hunched over. Somebody followed closely on his heels and when Silas took a seat Siofra recognized the visitor – Siani, his sister.

Siofra sat still, wishing herself invisible. She could not take it if Siani decided to take her anger out on her. It was only what Siofra deserved, but that didn't meant she wanted to feel the fury of her husband's sister. Siani, however, only turned her glare onto Silas.

"It has been days, _many days_, Silas. Where is Rhys? Where is my son? What errand did you send him on in the middle of the winter?"

"Calm yourself," Silas answered with a return glare.

"How dare you tell me what to do! You may be Keeper, but you are also my little brother. I will not hesitate to whack you with a stick should you continue to avoid my questions." Siani sat down, defiance in her posture.

Silas furrowed his brow and crossed his arms over his chest. He stared his sister down and did not say anything at all. Siani's patience did not wane, however. She could probably sit there for hours with patience in check. But so could Silas.

"You may be used to having a son run off without word, but my Rhys has always been a good and loyal son. His wife needs him. His daughter needs him. I need him."

Siofra flinched at Siani's words. She resented them and though she wished to remain invisible, she needed to speak up. "Siani, Rhys is aiding Ronan."

Siani turned her gaze upon Siofra and the anger in it caused Siofra to shrink back slightly.

"Aiding in what? What could possibly be so important that it cannot wait until the spring?"

As Silas was not in the mood for talk, which he never seemed to be, Siofra took a deep breath before answering Siani. "My son."

"The Grey Warden?" Siani asked in disbelief, in scorn. "You healed him. What more could you want with him?"

"He was not himself…"

"And so you send my only child away, for what? A _shem_?"

Siofra leaned forward angrily. "He has the blood of the people running through him just as he does the blood of humans. We owe him much and more for all that he has done."

"I have not forgotten what he has done." Siani shifted her attention back to her brother. "I just want my son returned safely."

"So do I." Siofra leaned back again and closed her eyes. "Your son and mine."

"Worrying for their safety does nothing useful. The both of you get a hold on yourselves. They are grown men and can surely take care of themselves. They will return. This I know to be true." With those words, Silas arose. Siani gripped his arm and pulled herself up.

"How can you be so sure?"

"There are things I know to be certain."

"And this is one of them? That our sons will return?"

Silas nodded. "Yet not all things will be as we wish them."

Siani looked to her brother questioningly before he brushed her off and took his leave of the _aravel_. When he was gone she turned to Siofra with a shake of her head.

"He is so frustrating."

Siofra could only nod in agreement. Silas often spoke cryptically. She never liked it when he did. She didn't know what he meant more often than not. This time was no exception. She wished for both of her sons to return home and Rhys with them. But Silas' words before leaving sent her into a shiver. What did he mean, exactly?

"I am sorry, Siofra. I did not mean to upset you, nor to slander Ronan or Tristan. I am just driving myself crazy with worry for Rhys."

"There is no need for an apology." She was driving herself mad, too. Siofra only hoped she would not have to apologize to Siani for her folly in sending their sons after Tristan. If it proved to be folly.

"I will go reassure Eleri." Siani inclined her head respectfully before exiting the _aravel_.

Siofra wished she could do more than just sit around in the _aravel_ and worry herself to the point of madness. She realized that she did not have to wish; she could do more, even if it was only something little like prayer. Surely the gods would listen to her pleas and return everyone home safely. They wouldn't be so cruel as to do otherwise, would they?

Siofra didn't think so. They'd been cruel enough already when they took Brenna away. It was all about balance, between darkness and light, good and evil, pain and joy, and every other possible pair of opposites. At least she hoped that was how it worked. All darkness, all evil, and all pain did not make sense to her. There had to be something more.

_Creators keep them safe_.


	23. Chapter 23

TWENTY-THREE

This was a path he rather would not have taken. It wasn't so much the road itself, but the end destination that was the problem. Vigil's Keep – the home of the Grey Wardens. Ronan couldn't help but feel nauseated at the thought of returning there.

"You've been very quiet, _lethallin_." Rhys fell in beside him, watching him with concern as he rubbed his fist. Rhys had sprained his hand by punching that _shem _in the face and even though Anwen had cast a healing spell over it, it still seemed to bother him.

"I've a lot on my mind," Ronan replied, shrugging off his cousin's concern. He wished he hadn't gotten rid of that bottle of rum. He could definitely use a mouthful of the stuff right about now. He'd never been much for drink, but the Free Marches had changed all that.

"Anything you'd like to discuss?" Rhys prodded, as usual.

"No…" Ronan shook his head. This was not anything he'd like to discuss, especially not in front of Anwen. The thought of seeing the Grey Wardens didn't bother him as much as the thought of seeing one in particular – Melisende. It was so shameful, what he had done with her, and then the way she'd treated him. He was over it now, he knew, but it still made him uneasy to think that perhaps he might see her again. And on top of all that, he didn't want to think of the possibility that they might have lost Tristan's trail altogether. They were, after all, taking a chance on heading to Vigil's Keep. Tristan might have gone in a whole other direction. He didn't want to think of what they would do if that were the case.

"Well… I don't like the quiet." Rhys scanned the sides of the road with suspicion. "I'm going to have a look ahead." And then Rhys was off before Ronan could object. He had to admit, though, that it was eerily quiet, even for a brisk winter day. He halted in his tracks, watching his breath come out in white puffs before him. The air was still and the only sounds were of the breath they were taking and Rhys' footsteps. _Gods, but the quiet is unsettling…_

"What changed your mind?" Anwen's voice broke through the silence of the day. He turned to view her.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You weren't all that interested in trailing after your brother when we first set off, and now, when you could return home, knowing you did all you could for him, now you want to help him." Anwen absentmindedly played with a strand of her hair. The movement was totally innocent, but Ronan saw it otherwise and gulped in a mouthful of cold air.

_I could ask the same of you. What changed your mind Anwen? Why did you decide to return to my side?_ But he didn't ask that. He gathered his wits about him and answered her question, as best as he could. "I realized that I owe it to him, even if he is a jerk. He saved my life… he is blood. And truthfully, I'd like to see Brenna avenged. It's only right."

"You knew her?"

"Briefly…" A flash of movement behind Anwen halted Ronan's tongue. He stared in confusion for a few seconds, not knowing what it was, not believing that it could be possible. It was a hurlock, _a bloody hurlock_, and it was swinging an axe dangerously, right behind Anwen. Terror filled his being as the axe arced toward her.

"Anwen!" he called out, darting forward, getting a grip on things, and shoving her to the ground. The axe swung harmlessly over her, but the edge of it caught his sword arm, cutting through his skin painfully. But there was no time to feel it, really, for he found himself being swarmed by the spawn. He reached for his _dar'misan_ getting it out just in time to block blow after blow from the ugly creatures he thought he'd never see again. They came at him so hard, so fast, that he couldn't fight back, only parry and defend.

Anwen must have recovered, for one of the monsters burst into flame, the fire spreading to the limbs of the darkspawn near it. That gave Ronan somewhat of a respite, allowing him to strike against the creatures. He was grateful that Anwen had seen fit to finally use her magic, yet the spawn did not stop coming for him. His _dar'misan_ was knocked away by a very large hurlock, and then, to his utter astonishment, the creature opened its mouth to talk.

"Take this one alive, it carries the blood of the one which killed our Mother." The hurlock pointed its jagged sword in Ronan's direction.

Well, Ronan would never let them take him alive. He still had another sword at his back. He reached for Theron's sword without thinking of the last time it had been used. It felt right in his hand, the pommel molding easily and perfectly to his grip. He swung it towards the darkspawn surrounding him. Now that they weren't trying to kill him, they were easier to defend against. He searched frantically for Anwen as he dodged blows and dealt them in return.

The talking hurlock must have noticed, for it sneered, such an ugly sight, with dagger sharp teeth and a crooked, twisted smile. "Capture the female too. She will make a good breeder."

Ronan felt his blood boil. "No!" He went swinging for the talking hurlock, cutting through some of the darkspawn in front of him. "Anwen, get away from here!"

He caught a glimpse of her, fighting off darkspawn, desperation in her eyes as she sent fireballs at her assailants.

_Gods, where is Rhys?_ Ronan forced the talking hurlock to engage him in battle, praying that Anwen's magic would keep her safe for the time being. And though the creature didn't want to kill him, its blows were strong, clattering against his own blade in heavy force, sending ripples through his body. Ronan was growing tired, his breath coming in heaves, his arm heavy and bleeding from the cut of the axe.

And then the spawn around him scattered. The sounds of battle erupted around him. It was no longer only the sound of his own sword, but of others. Swords clanged in meeting, darkspawn hissed, arrows whizzed by, war cries were shouted, magic glowed and exploded all around him, and the hurlock before him began to panic. Its beady eyes shone with fear as his fellow spawn began falling. Everything around Ronan was a blur as he concentrated on taking out the huge hurlock. Rejuvenated from the unexpected help, he pushed the hurlock back, further and further, a fury taking hold of him. Elgar'nan himself must have been guiding his blade, for it flashed before Ronan so quickly, he didn't believe his own hand to be guiding it. He cut the hurlock in the arm, it cried out in pain, he cut it in the side, in the legs, and then finally, as it fell to its knees, dropping its weapon, he cut right through its neck.

Ronan fell to his knees in exhaustion, his battle fury subsiding. He glimpsed his blade dripping with the black blood of the darkspawn. The head of the hurlock rested in a puddle of gore and blood, standing out starkly against the purity of the snow.

_I used it…_

"Ronan…" Anwen bent near him, concern in her eyes. Was he ever glad to see she was all right, intact. He felt like he could breathe easy again. Then he felt the sting of the cut on his arm as his cloak stuck to the blood in the cold. He was cut elsewhere, too, he noticed, but nothing deadly.

"_Lethallin_." Rhys appeared at his other side. "Looks like we won't have to go to Vigil's Keep after all." Rhys motioned with his head to behind Ronan. "The Grey Wardens are right here."

_The Grey Wardens_… he closed his eyes in thought. It figures it would be them, jumping in to save the day. Now he would be beholden to them. With a sigh, he opened his eyes and glanced quickly over his shoulder. He saw the Wardens examining the darkspawn bodies. He almost didn't want to stand up, didn't want to face them… but he was no coward. _Suck it up_. He stood up, wishing again he hadn't thrown the rum at the _shems _in the tavern, and faced the Grey Wardens.

He recognized Velanna, the Dalish Warden he'd met first during his only visit to the Keep. Standing not too far next to her was the red bearded dwarf. He never knew the small man's name, only that he was, like most dwarves Ronan had ever met or seen, very good at keeping his drink down. There was a human man, wiping his daggers of gore, a human woman with a staff in her hand, marking her as a mage. And there was an archer, who appeared to be leading them all. His eyes skimmed over these people quickly, uninterested, until he found her – her back was to him, but he knew her hair, her swords, and the set of her shoulders.

"Do you need healing?" the archer asked, appearing before Ronan and glancing at his arm, the cloak draped over it covered in blood.

"This?" Ronan shifted his attention to the cut and then met the man's grey eyes. "It's nothing but a cut. I'll look after it later."

She turned at the sound of his voice. He couldn't help searching for her eyes. When they met, she looked briefly surprised to see him. He stiffened at her approach and found that he could not look away.

"Ronan." She stopped near the archer. "I don't know why I am surprised to see you – I knew you would come."

Suddenly, the dream he had at the old inn came back to him – and more specifically his father's warning that this quest would bring nothing but grief. He was starting to believe that it had been more than just a dream, that it had in fact been the truth. And somehow, he knew Tristan would lead them straight into the Warden's path, into Melisende's path.

"The darkspawn spoke," he said. Anything to stop his mind from racing to dark corners.

"What did it say?" the archer asked, darting his eyes suspiciously between Ronan and Melisende.

"He wanted to take us alive." Ronan nodded toward Anwen beside him.

"Those sick creatures. Always wanting to breed with females not of their kind." Velanna came up behind the archer to take a place on his other side.

"But why him?" the archer asked, arching a brow in Ronan's direction.

"Oh, that's right. You never met him." Velanna sent a sideways look toward Melisende before turning her attention back to the archer. "This is Ronan, Tristan's brother, the one Melisende traipsed around with when you were off in Highever."

Ronan caught the return glare of Melisende in Velanna's direction. He wondered what these looks were about. Velanna couldn't possibly know, could she? And why should she care what Melisende did?

"So they're going after Tristan's blood now, too? Whatever for?" the archer pondered aloud, his grey eyes narrowed in Ronan's direction. _What's his problem?_ Ronan returned the look to the archer.

"They must be finding it difficult to track Tristan, so perhaps they thought a hostage of his blood might draw him out?" Melisende suggested. She stood awkwardly, smoothing her hair nervously. _So, they all know Tristan is alive…_

"Since when do these creatures have brains?" Ronan muttered. He was growing uncomfortable under the archer's careful scrutiny, darting back and forth between him and Melisende. _Like he knows what passed between us_… "Still, they are stupid to think capturing _me_ would get them what they wanted."

"You know?" Melisende inquired.

"That he's alive? Yes, I do. In fact…"

"You're following him." Melisende finished for him. _Still reading my mind?_ He wondered how she could just stand there and act like nothing had ever happened between them. Even so, she seemed nervous… and different.

The next thing he knew, a fist was slamming into his face. The blow was so powerful, he was so unprepared, that he might have fallen backwards had not Rhys and Anwen grabbed a hold of him. He brushed them off and touched his left cheekbone – he didn't think it was broken, but it hurt more than he'd expected it to. When he looked up, he saw the archer shake his fist with a slight grimace.

"I hope you broke your hand," Ronan spat out.

"Ugh, for the love of the Maker, why did you do that?" Melisende rounded onto the archer before he could reply to Ronan.

"It needed to be done," the archer said.

Melisende shook her head and then turned to Ronan. "Are you all right?"

"You want a fight, _shem_?" Ronan lunged toward the archer, but Rhys unfortunately held him back, and though Ronan often thought himself stronger than his cousin, the truth was, Rhys was pretty damn strong, and his grip was like iron shackles.

Melisende stepped in front of Ronan. "It's not worth it."

"No one sucker punches me for nothing and gets away with it!" Ronan said through gritted teeth. His fury rose as the archer stood calmly just out of his reach. By the gods, he swore the man would not go unpunished. He didn't know what he did to deserve a punch to the face, but it sure wasn't going to be swept away under the rushes. The man may have saved his life when he led his Wardens to the ambush, yet that fact would not give him a free pass. Ronan felt a hand press upon his shoulder.

"Ronan…" It was Anwen, trying to calm him. He would not be calmed; he would not be humiliated here in front of everyone.

"You had it coming elf. It was not _for nothing_," the archer calmly explained, folding his arms over his chest.

"I've never seen you before in my life, _shem'len_." Ronan elbowed Rhys hard in the gut. He would apologize later. Right now, he had a score to settle. When Rhys let go in pain, as Ronan knew he would, he reached for his sword. "_Ma halam_, _shem'len_."

"Stop… they are Grey Wardens," Rhys warned through pain.

Ronan laughed. "Just because they are Grey Wardens, they can go around punching people for no reason? Am I to be scared of them because they are Grey Wardens? Please. Somebody give the man a blade, I will teach him a lesson not to be forgotten."

"Ronan!" She had pulled her own blades out so quickly that he was now staring them down, trained as they were on his eyes. Following the course of her blades, he met Melisende's eyes, a look of warning within them. "There is a reason that Nathaniel decked you…"

The name meant nothing to Ronan, for he could not even think through his anger. And then, as he stood there, the cloud lifted from his mind, and he lowered his sword. He looked to Melisende, who now wore a look of shame upon her face. She lowered her own swords in return, sure now that he had calmed down. Ronan shifted his eyes to Nathaniel. The man wore a calm, unreadable face, but there was a hint of menace in his eyes. And then Ronan remembered.

Nathaniel was Melisende's lover. Or he used to be, judging by the awkwardness of the whole party of Wardens as they seemed to connect two and two together. _They all know…_ Ronan thought in shame.

_I guess I deserved that punch…_ but he would not apologize.

"Let us talk," Melisende said with her eyes lowered to the ground in front of Ronan, "…alone."

Nathaniel walked through the group of Wardens and plopped himself in front of a tree. "We'll wait here."

Ronan rubbed his cheekbone again, surprised at the man's… generosity? He didn't know what to think. He supposed he should give Melisende an answer though, for she waited with a patient face, though her feet said otherwise as they shifted in the snow.

"Fine… let's _talk_."


	24. Chapter 24

TWENTY-FOUR

Melisende let Ronan take the lead and followed him through the sparse woods, away from the road, away from the prying eyes of the others. She shouldn't be surprised to find him here, Tristan had, after all, told her he was being followed by Ronan. But she had never thought to see him again, and now she had the chance to apologize to him, to tell him of what happened since they parted ways. She didn't know how to do all that. And it didn't help that Nathaniel had slugged him in the face. She didn't know how Nathaniel had guessed. Perhaps it was written all over her face. Whatever the case, she felt a little weight lift off of her shoulders now that Nathaniel knew who it was that briefly stole her heart.

Melisende trailed a hand lazily over a tree trunk as she stepped around it. She didn't notice the small obsidian blade sticking out of it, not until it pierced through the skin of her hand.

"Ouch. Son of a…" Melisende cursed, waving her hand around in pain. The obsidian blade, most likely a remnant of a darkspawn booby trap, was lodged in the middle of her palm, blood running over her hand and down her arm. The sight made the stinging pain double in intensity.

Ronan looked back, saw what had happened, and cleared the ground in front of a tree with his feet. "Here, sit down." He motioned for her to do as he said.

She did as he wished, leaning back against the tree. All of a sudden, her hand was within his, the lightest of touches as he examined her wound. Goosebumps ran along her arm at the contact.

"Hold your hand still. I am going to pull it out."

"Do it, please." She looked away from the ghastly thing in her hand. She was no stranger to injury, but that didn't mean she loved looking at things protruding from her body.

"Ready?"

She nodded her head, closing her eyes, bracing for the inevitable pain. How could something so small be so painful? Then, just like that, the small blade was gone from her palm. With that, however, more blood poured from her hand. She never knew a hand could bleed so much. Or maybe she did, catching sight of Ronan's stump. She just forgot. Ronan reached for something in his boots – a long piece of binding, and began wrapping her wound with it.

"Since when do you carry around injury kits?" she asked in surprise.

He grinned – that mischievous grin which always sent a shock to her heart. "Since I learned I'm mortal." He finished wrapping her wound, crouching before her still. Their eyes locked and it seemed neither could look away. Melisende thought for a second that he might lean in and kiss her; she wished he would, but nothing happened. What kind of silly thought was that anyway?

Ronan stood up abruptly, held out his hand to help her up. She accepted and found herself standing very close to him. If Melisende were braver, she might have kissed him. She wasn't though. She felt silly for these feelings. Much time had passed. Many things had happened. Ronan wasn't the one she wanted to be with… or so she had thought until moments ago, before he strode into the darkspawn ambush meant for the Grey Wardens.

"I've missed you," she found herself saying. _Silly, stupid, Melisende…_ She found herself wanting to say more. To tell them about the child she lost. The child _they_ lost.

"Really?" Ronan cut through her thoughts. "I think it would be hard to miss _nothing_."

"I never meant that."

Ronan sighed, rubbing tiredly at his cheekbone, already bruising from Nathaniel's punch. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

She stalled, unsure of what to say now that they were alone. She nodded towards his blood encrusted cloak. "You should take care of your own wounds." It was quite worrisome now that she had seen it up close. The cold would not let it fester, but that didn't mean it couldn't. And who knew what vile concoctions the darkspawn had lathered onto their weapons?

"Anwen will take care of it later," he replied with a shrug. He could be just as stubborn as Tristan.

"Anwen…" She figured he meant the pretty blonde elf. She already knew Rhys. "…such a pretty name. I gather she is not of your clan?"

"She will be, when all this is done."

"I see…" What did that mean? Were they…? Ugh, what did she care, anyway?

Ronan paced around in impatience.

She still didn't know where to begin, now that they were alone, now that the first awkward words had been exchanged. In her mind, she had prepared for a day such as this, just in case, even though she had never expected to see him again. She guessed that deep down inside, she knew their paths would cross again, or at the very least, she wished it. Now, nothing at all would come to her. "My mind is a complete blank right now."

Ronan watched her carefully, quietly, it was so unlike him. She expected him to burst into speech, hoped that he would, but he said nothing.

"Say something, please!"

"You brought me here to talk. So you talk."

"Maker, you're so frustrating."

"I can leave." Ronan turned away, ready to do what he said.

"No!" She reached for his arm and stayed him. "I never meant to hurt you."

Ronan wriggled out of her grip and faced her. "I'm over it. You should be, too."

Melisende felt like she was about to burst into tears. The pressure behind her eyes was almost too much to bear. _Shit, not now_. But she couldn't hold it in any longer. Seeing him again, when she thought she never would, well, she saw what could have been. A child, with his eyes, his grin, Maker only knew what else… lost. She sobbed, and she knew it would make him uncomfortable, for he always hated emotions, but she couldn't help it.

"I just want you to know, that I don't regret lying with you. I never did," she said between small sobs.

Ronan shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "I saw the shame in your eyes…"

"Because I betrayed someone I loved. The shame you saw was for myself, for the hurt I knew it would cause Nathaniel. I'm so sorry you left. I'm so sorry for those stupid words. They did not come out right."

She shivered a little as his arms reached around her. She never expected that to happen. She cried a little more into his shoulder.

"I never told him about us, I mean, I never told him it was _you_. He must have felt it, seen it in me, and taken a lucky guess." Oh Maker, she was babbling wasn't she?

"Melisende, I forgive you."

She looked into his eyes and knew he was telling the truth. It still did not make her feel any better. She had to know the truth – she had seen the same shame in his eyes that morning.

"And do you regret it?" she asked.

Ronan made her regret asking, for he hesitated for a long moment. Melisende broke free from his arms and widened the distance between them. She didn't know what she was expecting, but it wasn't this. She wanted to believe that what happened between them had meant something, for what happened after would have been worth the pain. Was she crazy to think so? She had promised herself to put the past behind her. A promise to oneself was as important to keep as a promise to a friend. "Never mind," she said.

Ronan sighed. "It never would have worked, you and me. We come from two different worlds. You know that as much as I. We are better suited to being…"

"Friends," Melisende finished for him. She knew he was right. She found herself laughing hysterically. He was ashamed, she knew. How could she tell him, then, of what they had created together? What she had lost? It would probably only hurt him more. Maker, it would pain her all over again. No, this was something she would never tell him. It was better that way.

Melisende wiped the tears from her face. This was the last time she was ever going to cry about her mistakes. She took a deep breath and smoothed her hair back into its braid. "Anyway, Tristan was here last night. He's probably not far off."

Ronan regarded her askance, as if he didn't believe her sudden change of topic. "Did he speak to you?"

Melisende nodded. "He told me what happened with Brenna. I can't believe it, really." Tears threatened to spill from her eyes all over again. Life just wasn't fair sometimes. It seemed like it was always the good, innocent people that were taken away. This time, however, she held it in. She was sure Ronan had enough of her tears to last a lifetime.

"Did he say where he was going?"

Melisende shook her head. "He wants to do this alone, Ronan. You should respect his wishes."

"Did you not see how weak he is?" Ronan asked in astonishment. "He nearly died himself. He was poisoned, would have been a goner if a passerby had not found him. If my mother had not so stubbornly refused to give up on him."

"I noticed this, yes, but he will eventually realize that he needs to eat, needs to keep up his strength to get the revenge he so desires." She knew from experience. She only hoped Tristan would come to the same realization. She had warned him against letting vengeance taking over. He had seen what it did to her before her friends helped her come to her senses. It was up to him now.

"Well, until he realizes that, I cannot let him do this alone."

"Then the only thing I can say to you is, check the coastal ports, Amaranthine and Highever. He thinks he can find answers from an old companion of ours."

"Zevran?"

"Yes. Be careful Ronan. The Antivan Crows are ruthless. If you run into them, they don't give away information easily. And Zevran – I'm not even sure he is a Crow anymore. Last I knew, he was being hunted down by them for defecting. Most likely he's bringing the fight to them, if I know anything about him, that's what he'll be doing."

"Then how could he possibly know anything useful?"

An image of Zevran flashed before her eyes. The elf had many ways indeed to get what he wanted – a smile, a flirtatious laugh, brass knuckles, the tip of a blade into a neck. He was one of the most resourceful men she knew, and he didn't have the silly scruples that held others back from getting what they needed. "Zevran is good at getting information."

Ronan narrowed his eyes. "There's no way I am going to Antiva."

"Well, good luck trying to convince Tristan otherwise."

"If he's not already sailing there." Ronan folded his arms. "I should go."

Melisende nodded her agreement. She had said what she needed to, though, she knew the things left unsaid might come back to haunt her one day. "The others will be waiting." She thought of Nathaniel, sulking by the tree. Perhaps now that he knew who she betrayed him with, he would let it go. Or it would make things worse.

"Keep safe, Ronan." With those words, Melisende sprinted ahead, willing herself not to look back.

_The future is yet to be written_, she repeated like a mantra in her head, anything to keep from looking back and inevitably falling apart over what she had lost yet again.


	25. Chapter 25

_Getting to the last couple of chapters here. Thanks for reading! -artemiskat_

* * *

><p>TWENTY-FIVE<p>

Ronan stalked ahead to avoid the curious glances in his direction, but still, he felt their eyes boring into his back, digging a hole into it, and twisting his spine like a _dar'misu _carving a path into bone. They'd said nothing since they left the Grey Wardens, an awkward moment to be sure, for all of them. Ronan knew they wanted to know, and he knew he wasn't yet ready to tell them.

Contrary to the normal laws of the dead of winter, the day had gotten warmer as it waned. So much so, that Ronan was now sweating under his cloak, though when he did glance over his shoulder at the others, they shivered under theirs. The cloudy skies had helped keep the air mild, but it was still cold enough that nothing melted. _Perhaps I am going crazy and the heat is in all in my head_. But his skin was hot, and that couldn't be good.

Ignoring his discomfort, he led Rhys and Anwen on further down the road. They weren't far from Amaranthine and could probably reach it within a few hours. But the meeting with the darkspawn and then the Grey Wardens had eaten up a lot of daylight. The sky darkened quickly under the cloudy conditions. Though they probably shouldn't have stopped, they did so anyway.

"Just for a little while," Ronan muttered as he stretched back against a hard tree stump amidst a copse of evergreens. He felt drained completely and though it irked him to show any kind of weakness, he found his lids fluttering in tiredness. "We… can't let… Tristan get too far… ahead…"

"Are you all right?" Rhys asked.

Ronan jerked awake. Strangely enough, it felt like he had been asleep for hours when Rhys' voice intruded into his thoughts. But it had only been seconds. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You don't look so good…" Rhys stood before him with concern in his eyes. He caught the movement of Anwen behind Rhys, working on getting a fire started, though she cast curious and worried glances in his direction every few seconds.

"Gods," Ronan sighed, rubbing his bruised cheekbone absentmindedly. "Just shut up. Please." Why did Rhys always insist on fawning over him like he was some sort of baby? He'd be fine, if Rhys would leave him alone. He didn't feel like talking. There was already too much chattering going on in his mind.

"I will not, not until you tell me…" Rhys insisted with folded arms.

"Where is Ash when I need him?" Ronan glanced around, wishing the wolf would appear. Ash never bothered him, never judged him. Ash was the perfect travelling companion.

Anwen's fire lit up and spread a warm glow among their makeshift camp. She came to stand beside Rhys. Her eyes, too, narrowed in concern.

"You know, your threats of sicking that wolf onto me are getting quite old and tiresome. Even were Ash here, I am beginning to doubt you could get the animal to do your bidding," Rhys said.

"Would you like to find out?" Ronan retorted. "Because _your words_ are very old and tiresome."

"I'm only looking out for you – you're blood. For all the times you brush me off, you were always and still are a little brother to me."

"Oh, am I supposed to shed a tear for that confession?"

"I never would expect you to. You should already know how I feel. The bond of family needs no spoken words to be visible."

"Good. Then I don't have to speak them back." Ronan made an effort to wave them away, but they did not budge, much to his chagrin. So he continued, hoping they would get the hint that he was all right and that they would finally leave him alone. "But this _real_ brother of mine, I have a whole lot to say to him when I get my hands on him – and it won't be pleasant, so Anwen, when that happens, I suggest you block your ears."

Anwen shrugged. "I've probably heard worse."

"Come sit by the fire, _lethallin_." Rhys motioned to the blaze behind him.

Ronan shook his head. "I am fine right here." He was still warm. The fire would only make him unnecessarily hotter.

"What about the gash on your arm? I can heal it, if you'd like…" Anwen said.

"It's fine. I'm fine." Ronan waved them away again. "Both of you, go sit by the fire. I saw you shivering in the cold. Take the chance to warm up. We'll be off soon enough."

Anwen and Rhys shared a look before, _thank the gods_, they finally backed away and sat by the fire, leaving Ronan alone with his thoughts. He breathed a sigh of relief and leaned his head back against the tree, closing his eyes in gratitude.

It felt good to finally be free of Melisende's grip. He didn't think of her the way he used to and her words did not hurt him anymore. He felt silly for letting words hurt him, but they had at the time pierced through his heart in a way that was even more painful than losing his hand.

Yet, that was in the past now. He felt sorry for her. Perhaps he had hurt her too, in a way. He had cost her someone that she had professed a great love for, Nathaniel. Perhaps he should have apologized to her. She didn't seem herself, like the flame in her had withered. That could hardly be all because of him, though, could it? They should have said more to each other, but they hadn't. He wasn't about to go back and finish their conversation like he should have. He had to find Tristan.

After a while, Ronan found himself shivering. He wrapped his cloak around him snugly, but it did nothing to help. He would have to slink to the fire, after all the big deal he made to be left alone. Swallowing his pride, admitting he was wrong, well, that was one thing he absolutely hated doing. He was cold, though, so it had to be done.

"You've come to your senses," Rhys said as Ronan slunk close to the fire and held his hands near the flames for warmth. "So, tell us now, we are very curious. What was that all about?"

Ronan glared icy daggers at his cousin. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You can't pretend that black eye does not exist," Rhys said.

"This thing?" Ronan rubbed his cheekbone. "You know those stupid _shems_, always punching people for no reason at all. They are nothing but a race of bullies."

Rhys frowned. "Don't play stupid. The Grey Warden named Nathaniel said he had a reason and it became very awkward within the whole group when you left to talk with Melisende. I thought you two were friends, but it didn't look that way to me."

Ronan quickly glanced at Anwen. She had her head lowered and was studying her feet, but she had the distinct posture of somebody listening very closely to what was being said. The quiet ones were always like that.

"Leave it be, Rhys," Ronan said. It was nothing he wanted to talk about.

"I will not. You cannot pretend we didn't see that. There was something going on. You need to tell us now. You owe us this."

"Oh, I owe you?"

"Yes." Rhys nodded. "You've been acting strangely, even before you ran off from the clan to the Free Marches. You never told me what happened while you were away. You only showed up with Anwen and that was it. You are not yourself."

"Of course I'm not myself, Rhys. I lost my hand. I'll never be myself, not as long as I'm not whole."

Rhys shook his head. "It's not that. You've proven that you are still a warrior. There is something else and it has to do with Melisende."

Ronan sighed and looked away from Rhys. He'd wanted to admit his shames to his cousin before, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He wanted it over with. He wanted it out in the open. He never expected to do it at that moment, with Anwen there, but it came out.

"I slept with her… a _shem'len_!"

"Oh…" He heard Rhys, but did not look at him. He could practically feel the condemnation coming from his cousin. Or perhaps, it was imagined.

The silence pervaded the fireside. Ronan was too ashamed to look around. It felt good to get his secret out in the open, but he still felt the weight of it on his shoulders. He wondered if it would ever get lighter to bear.

"Why do you look as if you committed a most grievous sin?" It was Anwen, breaking through the silence. Ronan peeked her way, expecting to see a look of horror on her face, but it was only confusion.

"Because I have," Ronan said meekly, like a child. He felt anger rising in him at that. He hated that this made him feel weak. "My people do not look kindly upon this sort of thing." He could imagine how his father would react if he knew. Silas would never speak to him again, perhaps he might even cast him out of the clan.

"If it was done out of true… affection, then there is nothing to be ashamed about," Anwen said.

"You wouldn't know, Anwen. You were not born or raised among the Dalish. You don't understand."

"I understand more than you think…" Anwen tried to bite back her hurt, but it showed all too well on her face. She arose from the fire and disappeared into the shadows.

Ronan covered his face within his hands. This was not going well at all. But what did he expect? It was a shameful thing he had done. He didn't expect sympathy, yet it had come. Anwen was much too kind for him.

"I agree with Anwen," Rhys said.

"You do?" He looked to his cousin in surprise.

Rhys nodded. "Your shame is undeserved. Love is beautiful, in all forms. In a way, it is even more beautiful when it transcends worldly confines."

"Rhys the philosopher." Ronan chuckled. "Tell that to my father."

Rhys shook his head and laughed. "Oh no. My views on love might be idealistic, but I will never compare notes with Uncle Silas. Somehow, I don't think he would agree."

"You see why I kept it a secret, then?"

"I do. But I am surprised that _you_ did what you did. You always were so much like your father, going on and on about the _shem'lens_ and how they couldn't be trusted and all that."

"Well… I surprised myself too, I guess." Ronan paused in a moment of thought. He remembered who he used to be – hating humans for no good reason really. It was bred into him by his father, by others in the clan, even though his mother had never had a bad thing to say about humans. She always said that like every race, there were good humans and bad humans. She told him never to toss them all into one basket. But he'd never listened.

And then he went into the world. He'd met Melisende, and she was like no one he'd ever met before. Somehow he had come to see her as not just a _shem_, but as herself, as Melisende. The same could be said for Ty and the others. But it was hard to let go of things bred into him. It left him ashamed. The shame was hard to let go of. "Things change, sometimes in a heartbeat. I never thought I'd lay with a human. I never thought I'd bring home an apostate. But I looked beyond those labels and found I liked what I saw, with both of them."

"And you're still here, talking with me. Go to Anwen, I know you want to." Rhys gestured to the shadows. "Don't deny it anymore. If there is anything to take away from your brother's situation, it is that you should take what you can while it's there."

"You, _halla _turd, are right." Ronan stood up abruptly and looked to the shadows where Anwen had dissolved into. He found his heart racing. Rhys was right, why was he waiting? Why was he denying the truth? It was time for him and Anwen to admit everything.

But first, he had to apologize to her.

…

Anwen was never one to lose her temper. Cursing out loud, punching, kicking, or even setting things aflame never made anything better. For her, anyway. But right now, she felt like screaming out loud. She felt like turning into a wolf and hunting down a rabbit and ripping it to shreds with her teeth.

Taking a deep gulp of the cold air, she tried to calm herself. It was very hard. Ronan had stirred up a fury within her. How dare he say she didn't understand? She knew shame and she knew it very well. Lachlan had forced himself upon her so many times and never was she able to stop him. What was she to do? Who would have believed her? They probably would have said that she asked for it. But she never did. Who would ask for such a thing?

_Rape… that is shame_.

And Ronan had the nerve to confuse affection, or love, or whatever it was, with shame.

Anwen let out her breath slowly and painfully, tears begging to burn out through her eyes. When she looked up, she found Ronan watching her closely.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said.

"Is that why you followed me?"

"No," Ronan shook his head and came closer. "I came here to apologize to you, for one. I should never have said those things. I'm sorry."

Anwen wiped the tears from her eyes. "The act of love is nothing to be ashamed of."

"It is not that…" Ronan's eyes narrowed in pain.

"Because she is human?" Anwen prodded. She couldn't understand how Ronan could be so ashamed of something he chose to do.

Ronan sighed and turned away to kick at the snow. He seemed unsure of what to say.

"You are too hard on yourself," Anwen said. "The heart cannot help who it falls for."

"I'm not in love with her…"

"Anymore?"

"Anymore." Ronan met her gaze head on and even though it was hard to see him in the darkness, the fire's glow reached lazily into the shadows, reflecting off the snow and onto his face. He was telling the truth.

"Then stop feeling this way about an act of love."

"I... my clan would never forgive me if they knew…" He broke away from her gaze again, looking like a child receiving a lecture, yet not willing to listen.

"They forgave your mother," Anwen pointed out.

"That is different."

"How? It was love that brought her to Tristan's father? Was it not?" Anwen didn't know the whole story of Siofra and her human lover, but she knew enough that it had not been anything Siofra did not want. It had not been _rape_.

"I don't want to think of my mother and another man, let alone with my father. Please." Ronan shifted on his feet anxiously. "Let's just forget about all this."

"You chose. I never had the choice." This time Anwen looked away in shame. She had never told anyone before Ronan about what Lachlan had done to her. It had taken a lot of courage on her part to acknowledge it at the inn. Some small part of her had locked it away when she escaped the Starkhaven Circle. She had even forgotten about it for a while, like it was something that had never really happened, a figment of her imagination, a fading nightmare. Then she had seen Lachlan again. And he had tried again. But that time, she had fought back. She hadn't known where the strength for that came from. Now she did – it had come from Ty and Ronan believing in her.

"I know." Ronan gripped her shoulder gently. "I'm sorry. I should not have said those things, especially knowing what happened to you. I can't imagine what that is like. But you have the choice now."

"Do I?" Anwen's eyes opened wide in shock, yet she backed away slightly and brushed his hand away from her. She couldn't think with him touching her. "How can you say that? Your heart has been inhabited by other women for all this time. I am not as strong as them. How can there be place for me?"

"Anwen." Ronan stepped ever closer to her and brushed a lock of hair from her face. "You are the strongest woman I know. You've suffered through so much. You could have ended up a bitter, vengeful ghost of a person after what the Templars did to you, did to Ty. You could have given up so many times. But you didn't. And you are sympathetic, kind, and very strong. You are always there to help. You could have run away. You came back. Anwen, my heart belongs only to you. Take it or leave it. It is your choice."

She couldn't believe what he was saying. Was he talking of her? She found it hard to reconcile his vision of her with her own. Perhaps he was only trying to charm his way to her heart. She couldn't help but think of these other women, Eirlys and Melisende. They were nothing like her. They were stronger, wiser, and more confident. Maybe there were even more women she didn't know about. _How can Ronan be in love with me?_

"What of Eirlys? What of Melisende?" she asked.

"Is that why you've been so strange around me? Is that what has been bothering you? Eirlys?" Ronan let out a little chuckle and backed away in what Anwen could only assume to be disbelief. He ran a hand through his hair and then grinned. "She was for all the wrong reasons. It meant nothing. I already told you I am not in love with Melisende."

Anwen didn't know what to say. She felt like she had been acting like a fool all this time. And to think, she almost ran away in fright. She opened her mouth once, and then firmly shut it as a howling of wolves reverberated through the air. It was a long, torturous symphony and it seemed like it came from right around the bend. The otherworldly cries sent a shiver down her spine. Evidently, she was not the only one to feel the eeriness.

"That is… worrisome," Ronan said as he scanned the trees behind them. "Let's return to the fire." He held out his hand to her and she took it. What she was about to say would have to wait.


	26. Chapter 26

_Sorry I forgot to post the last couple of days. I had other things on my mind. -artemiskat_

* * *

><p>TWENTY-SIX<p>

How many days faded into night? How many nights brightened into day? How long had it been since he'd dozed off in the chantry? Tristan reckoned at least a few days, perhaps more. He hadn't slept at all since then. Had barely even stopped walking. He felt like he was dragging chains through the snow.

The fatigue was catching up to him now. He could feel it invading his thoughts, washing over his mind like a cold, dark wave of water and seeping into the marrow of his bones. He could scarcely remember where he was going. He wasn't even sure where he was.

The road he walked was unrecognizable, if it could even be called a road. Somehow, sometime, he had wandered off the road onto a narrow path, probably used by hunters. Where was he? Where was he going? He was lost. Through the haze in his mind, he knew that to be true.

Hunger pangs pierced through his stomach, twisting it painfully. But he ignored it. How could he eat, when she would never do so again? He was stronger than the hunger. Eventually he knew in his heart that he would have to eat something to gain the vengeance he sought. For now, he let it gnaw within him, thought of it as a sort of punishment for his failure. Besides, hunger pangs were not nearly as painful as the hole in his soul.

Tristan stopped and gripped a tree for support. It was a gnarly thing, old and rotting, the bark tearing off like dried up paint as he brushed his hands against it. The limbs twisted upwards and outwards and over each other. Yet somehow, the tree was still sturdy. As he looked up into it, he caught the silhouette of a raven against the darkening sky. It turned its head at the scraping noise his hand made and Tristan felt as if it looked right at him with its beady little eyes. Its beak opened and it cawed once, flapped its wings, and then flew away into the sparse forest beyond.

Following the large bird's flight, shivering at the strangeness of it, Tristan caught a glimpse of something else. Something entirely unexpected.

"Brenna!" he called out at the apparition. She stood among the sparse grove of trees. Her back was toward him, but he recognized her hair, as black as the raven's feathers, and the way she stood, with her weight on her left foot and her right hand on her hip. He'd seen that many times. But how could this be? He blinked and still she remained. Shouldn't she glow, if she was a ghost?

Tristan pushed himself off of the tree and stumbled forward. The apparition fled forward through the sparse grove of trees. Her hair flittered in the sudden gust of wind. The white fur cloak she wore flapped behind her like a banner as she stepped gingerly around the trees.

"Brenna, wait!" Tristan yelled. He reached out a hand in supplication, as if that would make the apparition stop. "Don't go! Please come back!"

He followed her through the landscape, calling out her name so many times, begging her to stop. He nearly tripped a few times in his desperation to catch her. He couldn't believe she was running away from him. He couldn't believe how many times he said her name. It felt strange on his tongue after so long holding it within. His heart pounded furiously, his breath was not easy in coming, and his legs grew ever so heavy to lift. But he didn't stop. He could not stop.

"Brenna!"

Tristan tripped and fell into a clearing, the hard crust of the snow breaking his fall. When he looked up, he saw the apparition standing before him, her back still to him. He saw, also, that there were no footsteps in the snow but his own. All that mattered to him, however, was that she had finally stopped.

"Don't leave." He gulped in the cold air around him before picking himself up off the ground. The pounding of his heart was loud to his ears. The wind stopped completely. He walked slowly toward the apparition, fearful of making her flee again. He reached his hand out.

"Stand back, Tristan."

He froze. His hand wavered in the air shakily. It _was_ her. It was the smooth, sweet tone of her voice. He wanted to touch her, to make it real. But he knew one wrong move and she would flee again before he had the chance to talk to her. To see her face again.

"Brenna." He returned his hand to his side. He choked back a sob. There was no time for crying. He needed to get it all out before she decided to leave. "I'm so sorry. I should have been there for you. I should have stopped them. I failed you."

"It was my time."

"No!" he shook his head angrily. "There is no such thing as destiny. I caused your death. I need to make it right."

"It is already right and as it should be."

He didn't like what she was saying. Nothing was as it should be. How could she believe that? How could she try and make him believe that? "I will make them pay, I swear it to you here and now. I will not fail in this. I will devote the rest of my life if needs be. I will give my life if needs be."

"You need to let go, Tristan."

"Why? I love you. Let me see your face again. It will give me strength."

"It will not."

"Please, Brenna." His voice cracked with emotion.

"I am dead and gone. You must let go."

"But you're here. Let me see your face again. Let me touch you. One last time, please."

The apparition turned around slowly, hesitation in her soundless steps. The breath caught in Tristan's throat at what he saw. Her eyes were dull, sad things, no longer so vivid and green. Her skin was paler than it had ever been, but marked with ghoulish decay. Her lips were almost colorless and cracked, nothing like they used to be. But worst of all, the thing that made him recoil back in fear, in shame, was the deep, crimson gash across her neck.

Tristan fell to his knees and collapsed forward onto his forehead. The tears came out then, melding into the snow in front of his face.

"Brenna, I'm sorry… I'm sorry. I would trade places with you in a heartbeat. You don't deserve this. It should be me. I deserve to be dead, standing where you are. I'm sorry."

The apparition said nothing. His body shook and when he found the strength to look up, she was gone, like she had been a figment of his imagination all along. He felt like he had before she came back into his life – empty and without purpose. The place she had taken up in his soul was empty again. It shouldn't be that way, but her death had sucked it dry. _How deep is this hole I feel? I never knew I could miss someone so much…_

The darkness grew around him. He wanted to give up. How could he go on without her? He promised her vengeance, but she tossed it back at him. Even if he could give it to her, what would he do afterwards, in the unlikely event that he didn't die in the process? All he wanted to do was find his way back to her.

_Just give in_, his mind whispered.

There was movement in the shadows. There was a faint crunching sound in the snow around him. There was more than that. Tristan saw the glowing eyes before he saw the bared fangs in his direction.

_Wolves_.

They paced around him, their paws leveling the snow, smoothing the hard upper crust to a powder. It seemed they were real. One wolf nipped at his arm. He jerked away in time. But that one brave wolf got the whole pack started. Soon enough, a flurry of fur, fangs, and snapping jaws had him turning in circles. He didn't even have time to reach for his sword. A part of him, however, didn't want to.

_Let them tear you apart_, his mind commanded him. _It's only what you deserve_.

Another, instinctive part of himself gathered mana from somewhere deep inside. A wolf took a swipe at his arm, the claws cutting through clothing but not reaching skin. His body had done what his mind told him not to – it fought back. Another wolf growled, came toward him hunched, hungry and rabid. Tristan found his hands glowing orange, shaking with power.

_I want to give up…_

The wolves backed away slightly at the sight of his glowing fists. They didn't understand what it was. Was it fire? Was it light? Tristan himself didn't know. He saw them clearly now. They were indeed hungry and desperate. Their bodies were thin, their winter coats patchy. They reminded him a little of himself.

Tristan laughed. He thought if anyone were to hear that, it would sound like the laugh of a madman. Perhaps he was mad. The wolves watched him warily until the laughter stopped. Then one pounced towards him, and the maelstrom was released.

The orange glow burned out of his hands, erupting into a circle of fire around him. The wolves scattered, howling in pain as the flames reached them. They ran off into the darkness if they were not burning. The ones on fire rolled around, putting the fire out, and then darted away, whimpering, tails between their legs, giving up their prize.

The fire burned around him. He was alone. His fists were normal again, but the release of so much power had weakened him. It had pained him.

_The wolves may not tear me to pieces… but I think I have done so to myself… I am done…_

He was cold, so very cold. And tired. Something cracked beneath him. He realized he was at the edge of a creek, if not in the middle of it. The fire would burn itself out, but it would crack the ice beneath him and he would fall through into the frigid waters and drown, for he had no strength to claw his way back from the abyss, even if he wanted to.

The ice moaned beneath the snow. He felt it shift. He heard the cracking. He waited, and waited, unable to move, unable to summon up mana for anything, until finally, the fire burned itself out. The last thing he saw before it went dark was a rush of water a handbreadth away.

_So be it_. If he was to be a failure, let it be. He felt for Brenna's pouch beneath his tunic and squeezed his hand around it. He closed his eyes and waited for death's cold hands to encircle him and take him away. He was already so cold, how much worse could death be?

Strangely enough, Arn's words dashed through his mind. _May your body be a feast for wolves, Warden-Commander_. He laughed quietly as he realized that might be the case after all, for surely the wolves would smell his death, and nothing would stop their noses from seeking him out again.

With a smile on his face, total darkness engulfed him.


	27. Chapter 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

As the freezing waters hit his face, he realized he wasn't dead after all. If he were dead, he wouldn't feel the icy water surround him, wouldn't be struggling to breathe, wouldn't feel the sting of the water reaching his lungs, and he wouldn't feel the grip of a hand pulling on his hair at the same time forcing him deeper into the water. So, he must be alive. A little part of Tristan was disappointed.

The other part rejoiced in the feeling of the air freezing the water to his face as he was pulled to the surface. As painful as it was, it meant he had another chance at vengeance. But his assailant did not let go of his hair.

"Nice morning for a swim, isn't it?" they said before dunking him back underwater. The cold penetrated into him, shocking his body again. It was a moment before they pulled him up again. When Tristan caught his breath and turned his eyes up towards the assailant, he frowned. _It figures it would be him_.

"Ronan." He spat some water from his mouth and coughed it from his lungs. He was a fool to think nothing could be colder than death. This rude awakening was colder than he'd ever felt. And it was all at the hands of his idiot brother. "Go on, kill me."

Ronan snorted. "I'll not do that."

"Wouldn't that be something? The Hero of Ferelden, murdered by his own brother."

"Don't tempt me, _shem_." Ronan wrenched him away from the edge of the creek and tossed him hard to the ground.

"At least you'll go down in history, get the glory you always wanted but was just out of reach. Well, little brother, here's your chance. Here is my throat. Push home that lovely blade of yours and send me back to Brenna's sweet embrace."

As if considering doing just what he wanted, Ronan pulled out his sword and examined the blade with narrowed eyes. "And be forever known as a kin slayer?"

"Do it," Tristan dared. He bent back his head and bared his neck to make the decision easier for his brother. He would leave the world in the same way Brenna had.

"A kin slayer is cursed by the gods," Ronan spat. But he grazed the tip of his sword into the flesh of Tristan's neck. "Why would I risk their wrath for you, just so you can die an oath breaker and a coward? You're not a hero, you're far from it."

"Then that makes it easier, doesn't it?" Tristan pushed forward slightly, purposely causing the sword tip to break through the skin of his neck. It was only a nick, but Tristan felt the small trickle of warm blood run down his neck. A shiver ran through him, despite his efforts not to balk from his dare.

But this was what he wanted, for so long. He imagined the blade running straight across his neck, ending his pain once and for all. If he couldn't be with Brenna in this life, then he'd be with her in the next. He turned his eyes towards his brother, pleading in silence for Ronan's hand to guide the sword to his end. Ronan would not meet his gaze though.

"This isn't the first time you've pointed a sword into my neck. You didn't know who I was back then, yet still, you were too afraid to push it home." Tristan inched forward to some extent, enough that the sword's tip pressed further into his neck as he spoke. More blood swam down from the puncture, steaming in the cold winter air. He became almost giddy with anticipation as his words caused Ronan to flare in anger.

"I see only one coward here," Ronan said. His grip tightened over his sword. The whites of his knuckles were a visible reminder of just how much he was being pushed to the brink by Tristan's words. Pleased at the sight, Tristan braced himself for the end.

"Do it," Tristan commanded now, begged. He closed his eyes, awaiting the final cut to rip open his throat, the way Brenna's had spilled open. The sound of Ronan's angered breathing was enough to make Tristan believe that it would come at last.

An agonizing moment passed, with Tristan waiting for something to happen, hoping for his pain to end. He was about to reach out and pull the blade onto himself when something finally did happen.

"Ronan!"

Tristan's eyes flew open.

It was Anwen, followed by Rhys. Ronan must have rushed off ahead of them for they were breathless from running. They stared in what could only be described as horror at the scene before them. Anwen looked like she wished to come forward and intervene, but she stayed away.

Ronan glanced back once over his shoulder and then fixed his gaze squarely onto Tristan's. It was like looking in a mirror, if he only looked at Ronan's eyes. There was no hatred in his eyes, only a calming tide of anger – the blue sky after a storm.

"Giving up your life kills us all," Ronan finally said.

Tristan didn't know how to reply to that.

Silence surrounded them. The spell was broken. He'd lost the challenge. He knew Ronan wouldn't kill him. Part of him was glad. Part of him would have liked to have been ended in that way. The one sure thing in all this indecision was that he didn't like this war inside of himself. Live a failure or die a coward. Vengeance or death. Vengeance was death, if he were to believe everyone around him. When had things gotten so far out of his control?

Brenna had been right; he was like a squirrel, never able to make a firm decision, never able to make up his mind. He was surprised he had managed to end the Blight, for all the decisions he had to make back then. Decisions that would haunt him forever it seemed.

Tristan felt the fight draining out of him. He gripped Ronan's sword and moved it aside. "If you won't do it, then leave me be."

"Quit your sulking." Ronan sheathed his sword. "You are not the only person in the world to ever lose someone to death."

"You think I don't know that," Tristan retorted. He remained on the ground at the edge of the creek. He saw the lines his fire had burnt into the snow, the break in the ice it had created. The water of the creek rushed behind him. He shivered, remembering how cold it was, how cold he still was. It was indeed morning, the sun peeking through the trees across the creek, creating a band of orange-pink on the horizon. It would have been a nice morning for a swim – if it weren't winter and if he knew how to. He shivered again.

"Do you think I ever wanted to be a cripple? Do you think that is what I dreamed about when I was a boy?" Ronan stared at his stump with disgust. "Did I ever think that my own sword would run right through the belly of my friend? I may not have been the one to wield the blade, but it might have well been. It was my plan, it was my fault that he died. But," he glanced back at Anwen before continuing, "someone told me once that the gods give us only what we can take."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Tristan asked with a shake of his head.

"I don't know your Maker very well, but I imagine he is much the same as the gods. Brenna is gone. She is gone. She is not coming back. The gods, your Maker, they have a plan for all of us. We might not agree with it at times, but I assure you, she was not taken from you in punishment, or because it was what you think you deserve."

"He is right." Anwen moved forward to Ronan's side. "She is at the Maker's side. You should be happy for her because it is the greatest place to be."

"You think to placate me with religious talk?" Tristan looked away from them in disgust. He wanted her by _his_ side, not the Maker's. "What if I don't believe in any of that?"

"You said you wanted to return to Brenna's embrace. I don't see how you couldn't believe in at least an afterlife," Ronan pointed out.

Tristan sighed. "So what? Am I supposed to just accept this? She was in the prime of her life. She was innocent of any wrong doing. What kind of god takes someone away like that?"

"It takes time to accept anything." Ronan offered his hand.

Tristan waved it away and pulled himself up, though he found it took a lot of effort to do that, and a lot of effort not to waver on his feet. "What do you want from me?"

"Come back with us to the clan."

"And forget about the people who did this to her?"

"You can chase these murderers for years, for the rest of your life. You can kill them, you can torture them before that, and it won't bring her back. You've been given another chance at life and I am damn sure that Brenna would not want you dead before _your_ time. Brother, you look half dead already."

"I know it won't bring her back. Do I have _stupid_ tattooed on my forehead?" Tristan glared angrily at his brother. "What do you know what Brenna would want, anyway?" He was thoroughly tired of everyone telling him what they thought Brenna would want. They did not know her as well as he did. But, deep down in his heart, he knew it was true, especially after seeing her apparition. Whether or not that was his imagination, it had seemed real enough. There must have been some truth to it.

"Bah!" Ronan threw his arms up in frustration. "Suck it up or not, I am through with you. I was attacked by darkspawn because of you. I was given a black eye because of you. I tried, I really did. It's up to you now."

Tristan felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. Ronan spoke nothing but the truth. He was half dead already. He hadn't eaten anything for days. He'd barely had any water to drink. He was sleep deprived, and he was shivering so much he wondered if it would ever stop. How could he deliver any vengeance in this state?

But what were they expecting him to do? Return to his mother's clan and live out the rest of his days there, pining for his lost love, avoiding any more assassins, like a coward? He made a promise to Brenna to avenge her death. It was only right. He supposed he should also stop wanting his own death or he would never get the vengeance he so desperately sought and needed.

He was stupid to think that he could do it alone, too. If it were the Antivan Crows behind this, he would need help. He'd only avoided their blades last time because he had Alistair, Melisende, Leliana, Morrigan, and not to mention big Sten at his back. There was so much to think about and he certainly couldn't think in his current state.

"Fine," Tristan said. The three of them turned to him in surprise. "I will return to your clan, if only to regain my strength. And… to apologize to Siofra. I give you no promises of anything more."

Siofra had started all this, when she dragged him back from death's door. And he'd run off without expressing his gratitude. Though he'd been angry then, now, he saw what a foolish jerk he was. He owed her more than he possibly had to give.

"Good," Ronan said, grinning from ear to ear and clearly pleased that he had finally gotten what he wanted from Tristan. "Let's get the hell out of here then."


	28. Chapter 28

TWENTY-EIGHT

They travelled for the whole day before agreeing in silent nods to stop at an inn on the outskirts of Denerim. This time it was not an abandoned, dilapidated old building, but an actual working inn, with workers and patrons. And this inn even had a name, which Anwen read out to them when Rhys asked what the sign said: The Tipsy Traveler's Toasty Tavern-Inn. Quite a mouthful, especially for Anwen. Rhys was the only one that chuckled.

It felt good to be out of the elements, but Ronan had to admit, succeeding in getting his brother to come home felt even better. He still kept a watchful eye on the oaf, remembering how the man slipped away last time. That didn't seem likely to be the case now, however. Tristan was clearly making an effort to eat, tiny bird bites though they were, and the _halla_ turd had finally stopped shivering after an evening spent in front of a toasty fireplace, as advertised. Ronan probably shouldn't have dunked him in the freezing water twice, but it had been so tempting to release his anger and fury on the man. In the end he couldn't resist and in the end, Tristan looked no worse for wear. It was only fair, anyway, for everything Ronan had been through on behalf of his brother.

Ronan was surprised and a little ashamed, too, truth be told, that he'd gone so far as to point the tip of his sword into the man's neck. There was a moment there where he almost gave Tristan what he wanted. But it was only a moment, a second really. Still, his mother would be horrified if she knew what had happened. It wasn't that he wanted to kill his brother; he only saw the pain in his face and wanted nothing more than to end that. He knew that sort of pain and knew Tristan's was probably greater. Then Anwen and Rhys had caught up, and he knew there had to be another way to help Tristan. Death was the coward's way out.

There was one thing still niggling at Ronan, though, threatening to ruin all he'd accomplished so far – his father's threats. Silas said if Tristan was brought back to the clan, then he would have to act on what everyone already seemed to know and punish his mother. Ronan wondered if his father would make good on the threat. No, he refused to believe he would. Silas may be cold, but he would never hurt Siofra. He loved her too much. He'd been bluffing, that was all, or so he hoped. His father always had strange ways to teach him lessons; perhaps this was one of those occasions. Though he couldn't for the life of him figure out what his father wanted him to learn.

_The dream… how much of it was real? _Thinking of his father's threats had brought back the strange dream he had at the abandoned inn. It had felt like he was really talking with Silas in front of the waterfalls. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face, heard the splashing of the water behind them, and he probably could have reached out and touched his father if he had wanted to. It made him wonder what kind of powers his father was hiding. But… there hadn't been magic in the clan for years, generations if he was to believe his father. Ronan sighed. All this thinking was giving him a headache. Not to mention he was feeling a little tired, and a little too warm by the fire.

"Something wrong?" Rhys asked from behind a mug of ale.

Anwen had offered up some coin to buy them a hearty meal. It had been so long since they'd had something other than dried up preserves and the like. Travelling food was only good for so long. Even so, Ronan found the inn's meal was only upsetting his stomach. He wondered if the others felt the same way. Glancing at Tristan and his little bird bites, he thought he might feel the same, though he had not eaten for who knew how long. Too much after so long without and Tristan would probably throw it all back up.

Ronan pushed his plate away. "I'm going to see if there is a room."

"We're staying the night?" Rhys raised a brow in surprise.

"If we can…" They didn't have any more coin. Anwen had too little left for a room, but he'd try another way to get one. It would be nice to sleep somewhere warm for once…

The innkeeper was an old man. He held some sort of seeing glass to his eyes as he read a book. When Ronan tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter, the man put the contraption down and grunted a greeting.

"Have you any beds for the night?" Ronan asked.

The innkeeper looked him over doubtfully. "Do you have the coin?"

"Here's the thing…"

"No coin, no beds. Sorry lad. You're welcome to warm yourself by the fire, but once you're done eating, you must leave." The man held the glass to his eyes again and continued to read.

Ronan leaned onto the counter and nodded in the direction of the others. "Do you see that man over there?"

The man sighed in annoyance and then tossed the book aside. He followed Ronan's gaze. "I see the man. My eyesight is plenty good. What's your point?"

Ronan gave the man a questioning look. If the man's eyesight was so good, why was he using that glass contraption – spectacles he thought they were called, if he remembered his time among the humans correctly. He was tempted to ask, but knew it would only anger the man. Sucking in his breath, he shook off his curiousity. "He is Tristan Amell, the Hero of Ferelden."

The man furrowed his brows. "And why am I to believe you? I heard the stories, about how he was swallowed up by a sea monster in the Waking Sea."

"Well, he's alive." _Obviously_, Ronan muttered under his breath.

"Even if the stories be false, I heard the Hero was ten feet tall and shot lightning bolts out of his eyes. That he had flaming golden hair, whatever that means, icy blue eyes and a handsome face to melt the ladies' hearts. And that he had a strange birthmark on his face. That man looks nothing like what is said."

"Ten feet tall?" Ronan glanced at his brother, amused by the tales that had sprouted out about him. "Hardly. A birthmark? No, look closely, it is a faded tattoo, given to him by his mother when he was just a babe. I heard he didn't even cry out in pain."

"It may be you're right." The man squinted in Tristan's direction. "It does look like a tattoo. And he does have the hair and eyes they said. I suppose he might be handsome… but I'm no expert on what melts a lady's heart. What about the lightning bolts?"

"Lightning bolts? Not from his eyes, but I've seen them come from his fingers. He once destroyed a tavern in Gwaren because the patrons bothered his woman." Ronan felt like Harshal, telling slightly embellished truths. But it was worth it, seeing the man hesitate and squirm in fear. And why couldn't he add to his brother's legend? It was much more amusing than he thought.

"Is that a threat?" the innkeeper asked.

"No. That woman is dead now. What you see over there, is the Hero in mourning. You see, he needs a good night's rest. He can't get that on the road, in the cold. Granted, he's been through much harsher conditions before, like during the Blight. He only ever slept in tents, through all kinds of weather. But now, he deserves one night in a comfy inn like your fine establishment. For all he's done for Ferelden, can't you at least give him that?"

"I don't know…" The innkeeper stared at Tristan, considering his options. When he turned back to Ronan, there was sadness in his grey eyes. "I lost my wife a year ago. Even if you're lying to me about his being the Hero, I can sympathize with the man. It's a tough thing, losing your love, and so young at that. I'll give you the beds…"

"Thank you." Ronan managed to conceal his surprise. He didn't think he would succeed. He was glad he didn't have to resort to uttering old Dalish curses, though that probably would not have worked either. There were only so many suspicious fools in the world that would take those threats seriously. He didn't think this man was one.

"Nobody's going to say Jack don't have a heart." Jack the innkeeper placed a set of keys on the counter. "Now, go away before I change my mind. Everyone knows elves don't pay their debts…"

"And you were being so nice." Ronan took the keys, in case the man really did change his mind.

"Sorry lad, it's a saying that just comes out of my mouth. It's true more often than not, too. Nevertheless, I bear your kind no ill will, really."

"_My kind_?" Ronan groaned. He decided to let it go, now that he had the keys. The old man was only a fool with a loose tongue. "Besides, you said this was on the goodness of your heart and so I shouldn't be incurring any debt."

"That I did say, though not in those words exactly… just clear out in the morning. I may have a kind heart, but that does not keep my business going."

"I will gladly clear out in the morning." He couldn't get home too soon. He was about to turn away when he leaned over the counter one more time. "And one more thing, don't go starting any new rumours. The Hero is a private man. If he hears you blabbered on about personal things… well…" He wiggled his fingers.

Jack recoiled. "I will not say anything. I rather like my inn the way it is. It doesn't need redecorating anytime soon."

Ronan chuckled and turned away, heading back to the table where Rhys, Tristan, and Anwen were seated. He held out the keys to them. "I've got us a room for the night. Only one, but it's better than sleeping out in the cold again."

"How'd you manage that?" Rhys asked, taking the keys away and examining them as if they were an exotic relic.

"I have my ways." Ronan grinned, sending confused looks on their faces. He said nothing else on the matter. He met Anwen's gaze. "Why don't you go up and see what the room looks like. I need to talk to Tristan."

Anwen raised a questioning brow, but stood up and took the keys from Rhys.

"I guess you don't want me around either, _lethallin_?" Rhys got up as well when Ronan nodded and followed Anwen away.

"So what do you want?" Tristan asked as Ronan sat. "You already said an earful to me this morning."

"I need you to stop hurting our mother."

Tristan sighed and placed a hand on his temple. "I never mean to, Ronan. She's just always there, smothering me. I don't need a mother. What am I supposed to do? You don't understand, and you never will because you had your family all your life. This… this is new to me…"

"Even if you don't need her, show some respect. She gave birth to you. She's not some evil witch out to get you. She feels horrible about what happened to you. She just wants to see you happy." Ronan considered telling Tristan about his father's threats, but thought better of it. It would probably only drive him away again, and he didn't even know if Silas would make good on them.

"I told you I would try and make things right with her. No promises."

"Yes, you made that clear enough." Ronan leaned back and folded his arms. _Gods, it's hot in here_. "You're not going to slip away again?"

Tristan shook his head. "I promise you."

Ronan didn't know how much his brother's promises were worth, but he supposed he'd have to accept his word. There was nothing more he could do, unless he chained his brother for the night, which was not something he would ever want to attempt. "Good."

Tristan remained silent for a moment. Ronan got the feeling, however, that he wanted to say something. When Tristan rubbed his cheekbone, Ronan knew what was coming.

"What's with the black eye, anyway? And how is it my fault? I don't recall punching you in the face, no matter how much I'd have liked to."

Ronan didn't want to answer that. He may have admitted what happened to Rhys and Anwen, but Tristan didn't need to know, not by him. He knew Tristan and Melisende were close and thought Tristan might think Ronan did something to hurt the woman, even though that wasn't the case. "It's a long story you don't want to know. So, it's also not really your fault."

Tristan watched him with interest and then lifted a shoulder. "Keep it to yourself then."

There was something that Ronan did want to get off his chest, however. He decided to bring it up now. "For what it's worth… I'm sorry my blade nicked your neck."

Tristan shrugged. "I asked for it, and I'm sorry that I did. It was stupid to goad you like that…" He leaned in closely, eyes narrowed with interest and voice lowered to just above a whisper. "Would you have done it had they not come?"

Ronan hoped Tristan didn't catch his slight hesitation. "The only thing that matters is that I didn't."

Tristan stared at him for a long moment before leaning back out. "Well… that is reassuring."

Ronan shrugged. What did he want him to say? That a part of him wanted so badly to run the blade across his neck? He didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Now… about your father…"

"There's really nothing more to say about him," Tristan cut in. "You heard everything there was to know already. He was alive. He was a blood mage smuggler. And now he's dead. He asked me not to tell Siofra…"

Ronan grinned. "Finally, something we agree on. She doesn't need to know. It will only hurt her more."

And with genuine sadness in his eyes, Tristan replied, "that's exactly what he thought."

…

"Such a big room, and only one bed in it. I'll never understand why humans need so much space. They could have fit at least another two or three beds in here, easily. Instead they decorate it with useless furniture. Who even uses these wardrobes? Does anyone even stay in an inn that long?" Rhys wandered around the small room Ronan had procured for them, touching each piece of furniture like a curious child. He stopped in front of an empty clothes chest and shook his head.

Anwen followed in, but her mind was elsewhere. "Rhys, I don't think I can do this."

"There is only one bed, but I am sure we'll draw lots for it. I don't mind sleeping on the floor if it comes to that. It's what I'm used to." Rhys moved away from the clothes chest and ran his hand along the bed post with a look of mischief on his face. "I can't wait to get home anyway. There's no better bed than my Eleri's arms."

"I think I am going to have to break Ronan's heart," Anwen blurted out.

"What?" Rhys shifted his attention to her completely. "I don't understand. Is this about the Grey Warden Melisende?"

"No." Anwen shook her head. It was so much more than that. It wasn't even that. How could she hope to explain it to Rhys, to Ronan even, when she could not even explain it well enough to herself?

"Please don't do this," Rhys said.

"I have to…"

She had no time to say anything else for Ronan and Tristan came through the door at that moment. Ronan stopped by the door and frowned at the sight of the room with one bed.

"Jack, this is what the kindness of your heart is worth?" he muttered.

Anwen felt Rhys' pleading gaze upon her as she walked over to Ronan and pulled him slightly aside, though she knew she wouldn't get any privacy in that room, big as it was.

"I need to talk to you," she whispered. He smiled at her touch and that nearly unraveled what little resolve she held. It sent a blush to her face and her stomach aflutter.

"We never finished our conversation in the woods…"

She took a deep breath. "This is where I depart."

"What?"

Anwen didn't want to do this in front of the others, but she feared she would not be able to get it out if she didn't just do it then. She didn't want to embarrass Ronan, that was the last thing she wanted to do, yet it was now or never. It was a difficult decision to come to. "I can't stay."

"Why not?" Ronan stared at her in disbelief, in puzzlement. "What is wrong?"

"There's nothing _wrong_." She looked away in shame.

"So what? I don't get it." Ronan tilted her head back to face his. Their eyes locked and she saw the confusion and hurt she was causing him. "Are you scared?"

"N-no," she replied.

"Anwen you can talk to me."

"Everything is perfectly fine."

"Then I don't see why you have to leave."

"That is why I have to leave. Nothing has ever been this fine for me since… since I found Ty and the others. And then… you know what happened."

Realization dawned on Ronan's face. "You _are_ afraid. Nothing like that is going to happen again. I promise you."

Ronan still had his hand on her face. She knocked it away gently and turned away from him. Rhys and Tristan were pretending not to listen or watch, but she knew they heard everything. And they looked just as confused as Ronan.

Everything was fine, just as she said, but Anwen felt guilty. Ty was dead and she was alive. And she liked, no she _really liked_ Ronan when she never felt that way for Ty. Maybe it was silly to feel guilty, but he gave his life for her. He could still be alive if she'd never met him. How could she be happy? It was not right.

"You're a thief, Anwen of Starkhaven," Ronan said loudly. "First, you steal my sword. And now you've stolen something far more valuable."

Anwen spun on her heels to face him again. She felt her anger rise and her cheeks color at his accusation. It was true that she had stolen his sword, but then he'd won it back. She never stole anything else from him. "Why, you… how dare you!" She shoved him backward when he moved forward. It wasn't enough to send him to the floor, unfortunately, but it did halt his forward progress. "I've stolen nothing from you, and you know it!"

Ronan shook his head. "That's not true. You've stolen my heart."

Anwen wanted to run and she would have had Ronan not taken her hand and placed it upon his heart. She felt it racing beneath the tips of her fingers, much like her own heart was racing.

"Do you feel how my heart is pounding? It's all for you, Anwen. Don't go, please…"

She froze, felt like she was under a spell. This wasn't really about Ty, she realized. He would have wanted her to be happy. He and Ronan were friends. There was no one else he'd probably want her to be with. Maybe she was just being a coward. She was afraid of being happy, of being loved for the first time in her life. Most of all, she was afraid of it all being taken away. The constant threat of being returned to the Circle was too much to bear. If she ran, she couldn't lose what she didn't have.

"There's nothing to be scared of. I won't let anyone take you away or hurt you ever again," Ronan reassured her. Was he reading her thoughts, or was she just that obvious? He leaned closer to her, so close that she could feel his breath on her lips. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "You haven't forgotten what a real kiss is because you never had one."

And then he kissed her, in front of his brother and his cousin. It was nothing like the first time they kissed. That had been her initiative and quite awkward now that she remembered it. This was completely different. It was a desperate plea for her to stay. Everything went into it and it sent a shock of passion throughout her body. When it ended, she backed away in embarrassment. Such a kiss should not have been public and it should not have ended with her being confused, her plans to leave in question. Of course, that had been Ronan's intention.

"I'm sorry." Anwen backed away, halting between the threshold of the room and the hall. She fingered the door knob, unable to look at Ronan. If she did, she would be his forever. "I need time to think…"

She slammed the door shut to buy herself some precious time and then fled down the hall, down the stairs, through the common room of the inn and out into the cold. All the way she heard his footsteps behind her, his muttered curses as she purposely ran around people causing him to bump into them. Once outside, Anwen melted into the shadows. She had only a few seconds before his eyes made her out in the dark.

Closing her eyes, she steadied her breathing and gathered her mana. Her legs transformed first and she fell onto her palms, which became paws. Fur burst out of her body and so did a tail. Her face grew longer and narrower as it took on the final markings of a wolf. It was always a little painful and she cried out in pain, though it came out as a yelp. In only a few seconds, she had become a white wolf.

Anwen padded out of the shadows onto the road. She glanced back over her furry shoulder. He was there, watching her, a resigned sadness on his face. He knew he'd lost her. Or so she hoped. She leapt into a run and disappeared into the snowy darkness.


	29. Chapter 29

TWENTY-NINE

Tristan had a feeling something like this would happen, only he expected it to be him collapsing forward in exhaustion and not Ronan. His half-brother had been quiet since they left the inn, but Tristan figured it was only natural, after what happened with Anwen. It might not have been that causing the silence after all, or at least not the only cause.

They had travelled slowly, breaking many times. Tristan had thought Ronan was purposely going easy on him or perhaps waiting to see if Anwen would rejoin them. Ultimately, that wasn't the whole story. When they reached into the Brecilian Forest and were minutes away from the clan, Ronan had muttered something about Tristan waiting there and when Rhys remarked about how pale he looked, Ronan's legs gave out, like a dam giving way to a flood.

Ronan sat on his knees now, looking quite dazed. Rhys crouched before Ronan and put a hand to his forehead. He turned to Tristan with worry. "He's very hot."

Tristan edged closer, his bad feeling growing into something more.

"My arm," Ronan said as he wavered forward into Rhys' arms. Rhys pulled Ronan's cloak back. Tristan was shocked at what he saw – a large gash running along the outside of his brother's sword arm. It didn't take a spirit healer to see that it did not look good. Anybody with a brain would be worried.

"The darkspawn did this," Rhys explained. "He said it was no big deal. He didn't let Anwen heal it, not even the Grey Wardens."

Tristan lifted a brow in surprise. They had run into darkspawn, into the Grey Wardens. He knew it was his fault. He had sensed the darkspawn but he ignored it – they were no longer his purpose in the world. And then Ronan had run right into them. He sighed, hoping his brother would not be another life on his conscious. "How foolish of him to do that."

Rhys turned to him and nodded slowly. Tristan imagined the irony of his statement was not lost on the Dalish hunter. Here he was chastising his brother for not taking care of himself when he'd done the same. But Rhys was too worried to comment on it.

"Can you help him now?"

Tristan went over to Ronan and yanked him up as gently as he could, latching an arm under his brother's shoulder. "The village is not far. Let's get him home first." He wasn't sure if he could help Ronan. He was still so weak himself. But he would try – he owed him at least that. He would not let another person die on account of his decisions. Hindsight had proven them to be idiotic, yet at the time, seeking blind vengeance was all he could think to do.

Rhys went to Ronan's other side and supported him. Together, they got Ronan to walk, though more often than not they dragged him between them through the snow. At one point, Ronan opened his mouth again, giving hope to Tristan that all was not yet lost.

"Is it the Blight sickness?" Ronan asked in a delirious haze.

"No, Ronan. I would feel it, trust me," Tristan answered.

"This isn't a good way to die." Ronan stumbled, but they dragged him back up, keeping him as steady as they could. "I always wanted to die in battle… not… like this. Ty shouldn't have died… but it was… death by a sword… a warrior's death… even if the Templar was a snake in the grass…"

"You're not going to die, _lethallin_," Rhys said. He looked to Tristan for reassurance and all he could give to Rhys was a slight nod.

"Save your strength. Stop talking," Tristan warned. The way Ronan was grasping for breath was worrisome. How could he have gotten so weak so quickly? Even more so was his brother's talk of death – his own and that of somebody named Ty. Tristan never knew Ronan to be so pessimistic and morbid in the small time he'd known him. Even when his clan had been taken by slavers, there had been hope in his talk. Now there only seemed to be resignation.

"Where's Anwen?" Ronan asked.

Tristan shared a look with Rhys. He was unsure how to respond. Luckily, they reached the edge of the village by then and didn't have to answer Ronan's query. Tristan may not have a great love for his brother, but he did feel Ronan's pain. The man had poured his heart out to Anwen and she had tossed it back at him and fled. Normally, he might have at least considered rubbing it in, but he was feeling just as miserable. And truth be told, he thought he could understand Anwen's reasons for leaving, even if they didn't make sense to the others. He'd all but blocked out most of his memories of the Circle Tower. Yet he knew what it was like in those places and they were usually worse for women.

"Rhys? You've returned!" said a sentry, an elf Tristan did not know. The elf had been lazing about in the snow, arising quickly at their approach. He had not drawn out any weapon.

"We need to get to the Keeper quickly," Rhys said.

The sentry nodded and moved aside to let them pass. Tristan noticed as a look of concern appeared on the man's face at the sight of Ronan being dragged between them, drifting in and out of reality now.

They made their way through the village, Tristan letting Rhys take the lead. All the _aravels _looked the same to him and he didn't remember which one was the Keeper's. He was growing tired of the burden he was carrying, but it was one he had to bear. It was his fault it had come to this after all. They drew curious glances from the few elves that were out and about on the cold day, until finally they halted in front of an _aravel_ no special from the others.

"Uncle!" Rhys shouted out.

It was not Silas that came through the hide doorway of the dwelling, but Siofra. One look in their direction and she came running, a mingled look of what Tristan could only describe as shock, concern, and guilt on her face. She covered Ronan's face with her hands and bade him look at her. All he seemed able to do was attempt to brush off everyone who had a hold on him.

"I am not a weakling," he managed to get out in a mumble. "Let go of me…"

Tristan obliged his brother and let go, gently. When Rhys did the same, Ronan fell to the ground. Siofra clicked her tongue in remonstration and held her son. She turned her gaze to Tristan and he knew she wondered what happened. He burned with guilt, just as much as she did.

"I'm afraid he's been taking my example and being careless with his body," Tristan offered.

"Oh, Ronan…" Siofra brushed the hair from Ronan's face tenderly. Tristan felt an unexpected pang of regret, even of jealousy, at the motherly gesture she so freely gave to Ronan.

_I don't need a mother_, he reminded himself. _That time is past for me. I am a grown man_. But so was Ronan and it was almost embarrassing to watch. Yet, he supposed it was natural. What did he know? He saw the worry etched into his mother's face as she caught a glimpse of Ronan's cut arm. Ronan also noticed his mother's persistent gaze on his arm.

"If it is useless… kill me now."

Siofra shushed him and then motioned for Rhys to help him up. "Take him into the _aravel_, Rhys, if you can manage alone."

Rhys coaxed Ronan into a standing position and helped him into the _aravel_ with ease. Siofra's attention lingered onto them both until they were out of sight. Then, she turned to Tristan. He braced himself. For what, he wasn't sure.

"Where is Anwen?" she asked.

Tristan lifted a shoulder. "She… needed time to think."

Siofra let out a pained breath and placed a hand briefly on her temple. "To lose not only the use of his sword arm, but that woman… it is no wonder he wishes for death. Can you do anything for him?"

"I would like to have done it sooner, but…"

"He never said anything about it," Siofra finished for him. She certainly knew Ronan well. "Would you try?"

Tristan nodded. He started to move forward but Siofra stayed him with a hand.

"Will he be able to use a sword again?"

Tristan tried to hide his hesitation, his uncertainty, his _guilt_. He knew, however, that if his face were a book, it would be wide open for everyone to read from. He was just that tired of evading how he felt. He took a deep breath to gather his confidence. "I will make sure of it."

Siofra touched his face lightly in response before turning to enter the _aravel_, where she had traded one sick son for another in the cycle of one moon. And it was all his fault.

As Tristan followed on her heels, he noticed the Keeper standing to the side. Someone must have alerted him to what was going on. Silas stared at Tristan so long it made him uncomfortable, for he could not read the man's expression. He thought he knew what it meant though.

_Silas is going to kill me if I don't make this right…_

…

Tristan sat outside of the village, warming his hands by a small fire he made. Twilight was upon them, the cold seeping into his bones. His breath came out in white puffs before him. He remembered the first time he'd been allowed outside of the Tower in the winter. After years of being confined indoors, everything had seemed new again to him. He'd been amazed at how much his breath resembled smoke. He laughingly pretended that he was smoking a pipe, like he'd seen a Templar once do. Now, it was only an irritating reminder that winter was not yet over. Not by far.

He leaned forward onto his knees, letting the fire warm his face. He was so tired. His mana was all but drained. He felt like he could sleep for a thousand years and still be tired when he awakened.

"You left quickly." A hand squeezed his shoulder once before his mother appeared at his side.

"I was not needed anymore," Tristan replied. He casted the only healing spell he knew onto Ronan. His brother's cut had knitted together before his eyes. The infected skin had disappeared as well. Anders and Wynne would have known how to get rid of the fever, but it was beyond his own abilities. Spirit healing was not something he specialized in. Silas, however, was knowledgeable in herbs. Tristan could breathe slightly easier again, knowing his brother would be okay.

"Ronan will be fine, as long as he takes it easy when he wakes," he reassured Siofra, but himself as well. It was hard to believe it had been that easy, after all that panic.

"You could stay in the village," Siofra suggested.

"I'd rather be alone." He drew his hands back to rest on his knees and turned his full attention to Siofra. He owed her an apology. He might as well get it over with now. "But… there is something I must say to you."

"You don't have to apologize to me. I know how you feel. You may not want to hear this, but I loved your father. When he died, I was devastated. The life we had talked of was no longer going to be. Yet I still had a little part of him with me – you. I regret giving you up so easily."

Tristan felt a headache coming on. Siofra had already sidetracked his planned apology, and now she was speaking of his father… Red, Rory, the cowardly man who thought running from his family, his duty would be for the best. Perhaps Ronan was right, he was just like the man.

"Do we need to speak of this again? I forgive you." And he realized he meant it. He also felt horrible at keeping the truth about his father from her. He and Ronan had agreed it was for the best and he would keep to that. "Everything turned out…" He let his statement trail off. Not everything had turned out. Not for Brenna…

Siofra remained silent for a moment, watching him closely with eyes like his own. It was still so weird to look at someone so much like himself, to have real blood _family_. Somewhere out in the world, he even had a son. When he was in Kinloch Hold, nothing like this had ever been fathomable.

Siofra patted his hand, to his surprise. "I suppose things did work out… though I know you wish you could change things. You probably do not want to speak about Brenna, so I will not force you to, but I will ask what will you do now?"

"I will leave, eventually. This…" He looked up into the forest canopy before sending an apologetic look to Siofra. "This isn't home."

"The fact that you came back, that you are staying, even if for a little while, gladdens my heart deeply. Just promise me that you will take care of yourself, that you will be careful when you go back into the world."

"I _will_ avenge Brenna, but I won't go about it so blindly stupid." Tristan leaned back slightly and closed his eyes. He would do as he said, but he would be smart about it. Brenna would want that. He opened his eyes to see a smile of approval upon his mother's face. "Siofra, I am sorry for my ungratefulness. You did not deserve to be treated in that way."

"I told you that I understand why you acted the way you did. It does not excuse the behaviour, but I am happy that you acknowledged the wrongness of acting in that manner."

He locked eyes with her. "Thank you for saving my life."

"It was not only me." Siofra looked away sadly. "If the Dalish wanderer, Eirlys, had not found you when she did, we might not be speaking right now. My husband, your brother, and a few other clansmen went into the ruins and found the _felandaris_ to cure the poison. And… there was Anwen, too."

Tristan was surprised at all the people that had fought to keep him alive. He didn't think he meant anything to them, especially to Silas. He remembered waking up with Anwen on top of him, fighting against his glowing fists. He should have realized that she had healed him as well. "I will have to thank all of them."

"I hope that girl comes home," Siofra remarked with a slight grimace.

"Perhaps…" He stopped his tongue before it went any further. He was going to say that perhaps Anwen didn't think of this as home, just as he didn't. But what did he know? Siofra was obviously fond of her. He did not want to say anything to upset his mother.

Siofra raised a questioning brow, but did not prod further. Instead, she stood up. "I have prattled on enough. You are obviously tired. Get your rest, here, if that suits you best. Do not hesitate to come to the village if you need anything. I will return to Ronan now."

"Thank you…" He inclined his head as Siofra turned toward the village. When she had disappeared from sight, he finished his thought in a whisper, "…mother."


	30. Chapter 30

THIRTY

The cliff was high and overlooked the forest, which seemed to go on forever in a wave of green foliage. The wind sent ripples through the canopy every now and again and as Ronan stepped onto the precipice, half of his feet jutting into the air, stepping onto nothing, he wanted to take a dive. When he realized it wasn't a good idea and he tried to back away, he found himself stuck. He could only go forward.

He didn't want to move forward, though, not alone. Searching out each side of himself, he found he was in utter solitude. Not even Ash was around. _How did it ever come to this?_

And then a gust of wind hit his back. It pushed him forward. His arms flailed, trying to hold onto nothing but air. His heels dug into the ground, but the precipice gave way and he stumbled forward. The forest canopy came closer and closer. Soon he would splatter into nothing.

Ronan jerked awake. His heart pounded furiously. His mind told him he had hit the ground. It had felt like he actually had, but it was only a dream. He sat up, his head awash in a wave of dizziness. He put his hand to his temple to diminish the feeling. Somebody touched him on the shoulder.

"How are you feeling?"

Ronan shifted his attention to the voice – his mother. For a moment, he couldn't understand how he'd come to be in the _aravel_. He couldn't remember what was going on.

"Your arm." Siofra took his hand and pulled it away from his temple, stretching it out. Ronan saw that it was unblemished. The deep cut the darkspawn made was gone. He flexed his arm, his hand. All was working fine. The relief that flooded over him was enormous. He'd thought he would never be able to use a sword again, and then he would have really been useless.

He smiled as Siofra put a hand to his forehead, checking him for fever. He felt fine. He felt great, and he brushed off her concern. "I feel fine, _mamae_."

"You need your rest," Siofra chastised. "Don't think you can just wake up and go back to normal."

"Why not?" Ronan asked. His mother looked to the other side of the _aravel_. Ronan followed her gaze to see his father holding out a mug of tea to him.

It all came back to him then. The miserable feeling he had before falling into a feverish delirium. The hole in his heart returned and the smile wiped off his face. How could he be happy, when Anwen had fled from him?

Silas shoved the mug of tea in his hand. "Drink it."

Ronan didn't really want to. He felt fine, physically at least. He knew how bitter and disgusting his father's teas tasted. They could cure many a sickness. But they couldn't cure a broken heart.

"I see you haven't made good on your threats," Ronan said to his father.

"You know why I did what I did." His father's gaze was stern. Ronan got the feeling Silas was recalling the dream and that he wished for Ronan to remain silent about it. Ronan returned his father's gaze with confusion before turning away in disgust. Another secret to keep from his mother. Was she really that fragile that they couldn't just tell her the truth, about everything? Ronan didn't think so, but he wasn't about to chance it. He had to admit, she had been less strong since her sickness, but that was physical.

"I did what you asked, _threatened_ me to do, now go away." Ronan wanted to be alone. He couldn't bear to let his parents see his misery. Especially his father. He would think him weak and be ashamed of him all over again. He put the mug to his mouth and gulped down the tea. It was hot, bitter, and tasted horrible. He nearly gagged. But if it got his father to go away, then he'd gulp down a hundred of them.

"Ronan, don't speak to your father like that," Siofra said. "Show some respect."

"Fine, though I don't know how you can go on defending him after he threatened you." Ronan met his father's eyes. "Father, would you _please_ go away."

Silas said nothing in reply. He didn't even move a finger. He only stared at Ronan long and hard, so much so that Ronan felt himself growing smaller under his father's scrutiny.

"Maybe I will go away then," Ronan blurted out. "There is nothing here for me anymore. You clearly don't need me. Maybe I will join Eirlys after all. She at least wants me around, can appreciate my skills."

"Are you a child, to need my approval every step of the way?" Silas finally responded.

"No, I am a man who can make my own decisions." He meant every word that he had said. Perhaps he would join Eirlys. He could at least make a difference with her. It would be a long road to travel before they made that difference, but he was sure it could be done. It would, at least, make him forget about Anwen.

"Then I hope you will decide to stay where you belong. I have never been ashamed of you. You would know that if you ceased being ashamed of yourself." With that, Silas arose and departed the _aravel_.

Ronan lay back and groaned. "He is so frustrating."

Siofra chuckled. "Yet he speaks the truth."

Ronan folded his arms and frowned. He did not want to talk about his father. He did not want to talk about anything. He wished his mother would leave as well, but he didn't have the heart to tell her to go.

"Tell me," he ventured, "the past moon has not been for nothing."

Siofra patted his hand in reassurance. "Tristan is here for the time being. He healed your wound."

Ronan figured as much. He owed the man again, as much as he hated being indebted to his brother. "Did he apologize to you?"

Siofra nodded.

"Good." He wouldn't have to knock some sense into the man.

Siofra hesitated, biting her lip as if she was holding back from saying something. Ronan knew what it was. He might as well get it over with.

"I know what you want to ask, so ask it."

"What did you do to Anwen?" Siofra asked.

Ronan shook his head in disbelief. Why was it so hard to believe that it could be Anwen that did something to him? But, he supposed he was partly responsible for Anwen's departure. "I did nothing but promise her my heart and she shoved it right back at me."

Siofra gave him an apologetic look. "I'm so sorry."

"Well…" Ronan shrugged. "Could you… go?"

Siofra acquiesced to his wish and left the _aravel_. Finally, he could be alone in his misery. But, truth be told, it wasn't that great. His thoughts turned constantly to Anwen. He wondered what he did wrong. She said everything was fine, but then she fled. He couldn't understand it and now his heart was empty and he doubted it would ever get full again unless by some miracle of the gods Anwen returned to his side.

…

It was a new day. Flurries of snow scattered out from the clouds in a disorderly fashion. Some made it to the ground. Others got caught in the trees. And still others melted into Anwen's hair. It was a new day, but she felt horrible. That's why she decided to gather her courage and make up for it, if she could.

She crouched behind a fallen log on the edge of the village that had been her home for some months. The scene was picturesque. A cluster of _aravels _stood before her, creaking in the wind, surrounded by snow, with inhabitants wandering around here and there. It all looked so peaceful. It looked like home.

"They don't bite, you know."

Anwen jumped back in surprise. The voice had startled her. It was Tristan, lazing against a tree. She hadn't noticed him there as she crept up to the village. He must have been sitting there all along, watching her in her hesitation.

"Unless, of course, you sneak up on them with bad intentions, then they get really nasty. But who can blame them?"

"Oh." Anwen shook her head. "No, I am not sneaking up… I mean I don't have any bad intentions."

Tristan arched a brow as if he didn't believe her. He was right, however, it didn't look like she was up to any good, spying on the village from afar. She fumbled for something to say, but couldn't find the words. She looked away in embarrassment.

"What are you doing then?" he asked.

"I need to make things right," Anwen admitted.

"You know, you remind me of myself. We have many things in common, you and me. I know why you ran. You were afraid of losing what you had. You were afraid the Templars would catch up to you and take it all away in the blink of an eye. So you figured you'd save yourself the pain of that and not have anything at all in the first place. It's what growing up in the Circle of Magi teaches you." Tristan fingered a small leather pouch around his neck, the one Anwen had found on the floor of the _aravel_ what seemed like so long ago. "But Anwen, you're missing out if you let the fear take over. Hold onto what you've got, while you've got it. Even if it is taken away from you one day… it is utterly worth the pain…"

"Is it really?" Anwen asked. She found it hard to believe he would say that after all he'd been through. But he nodded, sadly though it was.

"You'll be a much better person for knowing _true_ love, however fleeting it may turn out to be." She got the feeling that he was referring to his own experience and something more. He had been present when she had confessed to Ronan about Lachlan. Perhaps he was never really asleep. And he had seen her fear and understood it when she thought no one would. She was touched he would take the time to talk with her. She wished and hoped Ronan would understand, too.

He waved her out of her thoughts. "Go to Ronan. He's at his father's _aravel_… recovering."

"Recovering? What…"

"He's as stubborn as a mule. His cut festered…"

"Oh no… I will go, now." She stood up and with one last grateful nod to Tristan, she entered the village. Her heart pounded in anxiety, in excitement. She wanted so much to keep her head down, avoid anyone she encountered, but she resolved to keep her head up held high and proud. She would make it up to Ronan. She had been a fool to run off like that.

Anwen headed for the Keeper's _aravel_. She started off in a walk and then began to run. Was he all right? How badly was he hurt? She saw familiar faces watching her curiously, but she didn't stop. There was only one person she wanted to talk to now. She turned the corner on an _aravel_ and ran straight into a solid body.

"Anwen!" Harshal exclaimed with wide eyes. He steadied her with an arm so she wouldn't fall back. "I was so worried about you. Where have you been?"

"Harshal, I cannot talk right now." She acknowledged him with a nod and brushed his hand away from her arm.

"Why not?" Harshal asked, refusing to get out of her way. "Ow." He rubbed his head and looked behind him. Anwen smiled at the look on Harshal's face as he realized he'd been hit over the head with a stick – by a toddler. Tesni laughed and took another swat at Harshal as she realized the reaction she could get from him.

"Hey, tell her to stop!" Harshal backed away slightly. Rhys came into view then, holding his daughter atop his shoulders. He smirked and only moved Harshal to the side.

"It's good to see you again, Anwen," Rhys said. Tesni waved excitedly at Anwen from atop her father's shoulders. "But I'm sure there is someone else you'd rather be talking to right now?"

"Thank you, Rhys." Anwen squeezed his arm and then continued on to the Keeper's _aravel_. She reached it, breathless, and for a second, she was afraid to step through the threshold. What if Ronan refused to forgive her? What if he didn't want her anymore? She wouldn't blame him if he didn't, but that didn't mean she wanted that to happen. Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the hide door… and the _aravel _was empty.

Anwen's heart sank. Had he really recovered? Where was he? She felt a stab of guilt piercing her heart. He'd gotten cut pushing her out of harm's way. She should have healed him when she had the chance. She shouldn't have let him walk around like that, no matter what he said. She was about to burst into tears when she heard footsteps enter the _aravel_ behind her.

"It's very hard to keep that one inside."

Anwen twirled around awkwardly under the low ceilinged dwelling to find Siofra standing just as awkwardly before her. "Where is he?" she asked.

Siofra eyed her suspiciously. "He's off in the woods somewhere, though as his mother, I have to know if I am sending you to break his heart further…"

Anwen shook her head. "I was wrong, Siofra…"

"Then go." Siofra moved aside and motioned for Anwen to do as she said. "The gods know I alone have put him through enough this past month. He deserves a lot of happiness."

With a grateful inclination of her head, Anwen crossed the threshold again. She would not let Ronan's heart break further. She vowed she would repair it.

…

He thought his father's tea was clouding his thoughts, his vision even, for Anwen appeared before him, coming out of the trees looking like some sort of winter goddess. But Ash lifted his head from its rest on his paws and looked right at Anwen, too. If the wolf saw her, then she had to be real.

"Anwen…" it came out as a whisper of disbelief. He made to get up from the ground, but she closed the distance between them and crouched before him, holding him back from standing up.

"I am so very, very sorry Ronan." Tears flooded the bottom of her eyes and threatened to spill out. Without thought, he reached out and wiped them away. "I was afraid. I was a coward. I hurt you and I am sorry. You did not deserve that."

"Don't cry…" He hated seeing anyone cry. He continued to wipe away the tears that swelled up in her eyes. He was so shocked that she had appeared that he didn't know what else to say.

"You poured your heart out to me and all I could think of was what if you were taken away? What if I was taken away? I would actually welcome the Rite of Tranquility if that happened, if I had known love only for it to be ripped from my grasp. I couldn't give in."

Ronan couldn't believe what he was hearing. That Anwen even thought of becoming Tranquil were she ever to be reclaimed by the Circle… it was sad. She really was afraid, despite all his reassurances. "But you are here, again."

Anwen nodded. "When I left you at the inn, I wandered around, alone. I used to like that solitude. I used to be content with the thought that that would be my life should I remain free. But that is no life. It is no better than being in the Gallows. My time with you has showed me that… that I cannot live without you."

It was not often the case Ronan could not find his tongue. It was now. Anwen wanted him, just as much as he wanted her. The last couple of days he despaired of ever seeing her again. Now she was here, right in front of him, and she wanted him.

Anwen seemed to take his silence as something else. She brushed her hair behind her ears and sat back in resignation. "That is… if you'll have me still…"

Ronan couldn't help but laugh. It shook his whole body and even made Ash sit up in annoyance. Anwen again took it as something it was not meant to be. She made to get up, but this time he stayed her. He brought his face close to hers, so close the tips of their noses were touching. He looked into her strange violet eyes. "Of course I will have you. There is nothing else I want in this world."

And then he pressed his lips against hers, deeply and passionately. He didn't want to scare her off again, but he couldn't hold back. He felt her give in and then he lost himself in the intimacy of the moment, running his hand through her locks.

When they broke free he noticed her cheeks were flushed pink. He grinned and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her up off the ground.

"No more running?" he asked her.

Anwen shook her head. "Not from you."

It was good enough for him. He knew she might have to run from the Templars one day, but he would be right there by her side, defending her to his last breath if need be. He never wanted his heart to feel empty again. Somehow, with her by his side, he knew it wouldn't ever happen again. She was his _emma sa'lath_, his one love.

His heart was full. He felt whole again.


	31. EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

The handmaiden's fingers deftly unwove her braids. They brushed through her long golden locks, wavy now in the firelight. Every now and again the handmaiden would caress her scalp. So gentle and caring, much like a mother's touch, though Anora could barely remember what that felt like. All she knew was that Erlina's touch was a comfort after a long day as Queen of Ferelden.

Anora closed her eyes and let herself be swept into the sweet respite the elf gave her each night. It was much too brief, but for just a moment she could again be the little girl with pig tails, bouncing on her father's knee, or the blushing bride of sweet, handsome Cailan. Most nights, however, she dreamt of again being Cailan's queen, for that was when she was truly happiest. She ruled in his name, with his blessing. He never wanted to bother himself with ruling a country. He cared not a bit about politics and only for legends, his ultimate undoing, that fool. Alistair, on the other hand, was nothing like Cailan.

A sigh escaped her lips as Erlina finished with her hair. Alistair may share the looks of his brother, but he was much less willing to hand over duties to her. And he was much less willing to come to her bed every night. It was always said of Alistair that he was easy to manipulate, much like Cailan had been. But that was before the Blight and to Anora's infinite regret, she found out that Alistair had a spine after all. She blamed the Grey Wardens for all of that.

"Would her majesty like something to drink before she retires?" Erlina asked, coming to stand at Anora's side.

"No, Erlina. That will be all for tonight." Anora arose from the chair and made her way to the grand bed, empty as usual of Alistair. She fiddled with the velvet curtains as a feeling of wistfulness overcame her. Cailan would have been there, smiling and beckoning to her, in the beginning at least, before he listened to the whispers that she couldn't give him what he wanted most, an heir. She turned her attention back to her handmaiden. "You may go Erlina. I'm not so useless as to need you fetching me a glass of water should the thirst arise."

"Of course, your majesty." Erlina curtsied and then headed for the door. She pulled it open a crack and then slipped out quietly into the hall.

Anora pulled back the covers of her bed. Other nobles would sneer at her for doing that on her own, but her father would insist she do it herself all the while reminding her that she was a Mac Tir, a family as common as the sight of clouds in the sky. A smile found its way onto her face as she thought of Loghain.

And then a knock at the door sent her eyes rolling. "What is it?" she called out. When no answer came, she grudgingly left the comfort and warmth of her bed. She pulled open the door with an impatient scowl.

"Your majesty, Ser Conall is here," Erlina explained with a slight bow of the head.

"I can see him with my own two eyes Erlina. Keep your mouth shut and both of you get in here quickly." Anora moved aside for Erlina to enter. Ser Conall followed, the clink of his armor ringing out loudly through the hall. The guards out there were loyal to her, but who knew who lurked in the shadows? Alistair's spies, Eamon's spies, even perhaps Orlesian spies.

"My queen." Ser Conall bowed lightly once the door was shut behind them.

"It's been long enough since your last report," Anora reproached. She knew it probably wasn't his fault. It was she, after all, who insisted on his giving his reports in person. That way no one could get their hands on a missive and know her business. "Did you have a hard time getting away or has Alistair just been that boring?"

"I apologize, your majesty. I would have come sooner, but as you said, I could not get away unseen. I do, however, have something that might be of interest to you." Ser Conall hesitated slightly, shifting his helmet from one hand to the other.

"Well, spit it out. I've no time for games, Ser Conall."

"As you wish," Ser Conall acquiesced with a nod. "Days ago the king went to visit somebody in the chantry, taking only the boy squire with him."

"The boy squire?" Anora asked in confusion. Then she remembered. "Ah yes, Cousland's pet." She didn't particularly like the boy. He was always bragging about that awful woman and the other Grey Wardens like they were some sort of gods. "Who did Alistair visit? A woman?"

Ser Conall shook his head. Much to her surprise, Anora had been holding her breath for that one. The thought that Alistair could have a woman _friend_ was unsettling, though why he would meet her in the chantry was beyond her. She wondered who he did go and meet though.

"Then if not a woman, who?"

"The Hero of Ferelden, your majesty."

Anora's heart skipped a beat at Ser Conall's answer. She shared a look with her wide-eyed handmaiden before returning her gaze to her husband's bodyguard and her spy. "Anything else to report?"

"I'm afraid that is all, my queen. I thought that might be interesting to you, was I wrong? I apologize if I've wasted your time."

"No, Ser Conall, you have been a great help. To know that the Hero is alive… it is something. You may go, quietly please." Anora dismissed him with a wave and the knight bowed and then left the room. Erlina remained, watching her in silence, but with something of pity in her eyes.

"I am my father's daughter," Anora remarked. A stranger might have thought it was said in fondness or affection, but to Anora, it meant something entirely different. It meant failure.

"_Oui_, your majesty, but…"

"Erlina, leave me."

Erlina wavered, unsure of obeying her queen or staying to console her friend.

"That was a command, not a wish," Anora said with force, brooking no argument from her handmaiden.

"Your majesty." Erlina curtsied. "I will be near if you need me, yes?"

"Go. Now."

With one final look of concern, Erlina turned and left the room.

Anora was alone. Just a moment ago, she had been content. Perhaps things were not as she wished them to be, but she was somewhat satisfied. Now all that was gone, as quickly as a refreshing summer breeze. Like her father, she had failed.

"How did you get away?" she pondered aloud as she pulled the covers back yet again. She settled into her bed. She saw that her hands were shaking and she huffed in anger. She wanted to rip something apart she was so angry. But she was a lady, a Mac Tir. Petty bursts of anger were beneath her. She brushed her hair and took deep breaths to calm herself.

"Father, I promised you I would see him dead." Unlike her father, she would not give up so easily. She would not let _that mage_ go unpunished. "I _will_ see to it. And if I have to do it myself then so be it. You cannot trust anything to imbeciles these days."

Anora leaned onto her elbow and blew out the candle at her bedside. Darkness flooded the room.

* * *

><p><em>I debated with myself whether or not to include this in the story. In the end, I decided to include it (obviously) in case I don't get around to writing a continuation of the Wardens' adventures. I didn't want to leave you hanging, even if it does seem to come out of left field. I would like to thank you for reading the story. I had fun writing it, depressing as it was at times. -artemiskat<em>


End file.
